


Somebody's Problem

by ForFutureReference



Series: Reconstruction [3]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 97,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForFutureReference/pseuds/ForFutureReference
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When ensues when a young scientist from District Three finds himself in school at the Capitol and dealing with a former Career from Two as a roommate? Shenanigans are what ensue. Did I mention the upheavals affecting the nation in the wake of the Rebellion and Paylor coming to power? A look into Reconstruction-era Panem society.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

You know that feeling where something has happened before in the past, and it's happening again?

"Ladies first."

I sometimes hate that feeling.

The inevitable sigh escapes my lungs at the Capitolite's announcement, and I have to resist the urge to slouch while standing in line with the other male candidates.

They're seriously milking the theatrics as much as possible. I guess in the end, the legacy of the Games permeates everything here in Panem, even though almost three years have passed since that institution had officially been abolished. Granted, at least the dizzy bint didn't start the ceremony off with that whole "odds being in your favor" drivel; that would have probably pushed things into the farcical. Well… more farcical than they already are.

Also, instead of rummaging around for slips in some reaping bowl, she instead takes out an embossed envelope and opens it to read out the name of the lucky winner:

"Charlene Russell."

Everybody gives the girl a polite congratulatory applause as she walks up the central aisle to reach the steps of the Tower. I don't remember seeing her on the on the ride here, and there's little-to-no reason for any self-respecting resident of Central to be a participant, which must mean that she's from the wrecked hellhole that's East City; seriously, almost half a century has passed since the Great Quake and they still haven't got their shit together.

Anyways, the applause and the thinly-veiled expression of accomplishment on the girl's face is probably the main thing that differentiates this from a reaping. Because instead of being randomly picked for an event where a bunch of kids run around and die pathetically like the idiots they are — barring that last one, but the less said about it the better — the kids in this ceremony are purposefully chosen for the chance to go to school under the Paylor Reconstruction Ordinance. Apparently, our president wants to "create a strong foundation to build a better tomorrow" or something along those lines. So last year, under that philosophy, she announced the PRO plan which contains a patchwork of different government projects that are supposed to get this nation all prosperous 'n' shit. Well, one of the programs is one that will send a guy and girl from each district to study, free of charge, at the University of Panem in the Capitol; the idea being that it would train new leaders for the future.

I'm actually more than capable to affording tuition, travel, and living expenses — I mean for a nice place; not some morphling-ridden tenement in District Town — but my folks knew that there was no way I was going to waste money going to some liberal arts program where I'd be surrounded by limp-wristed Capitolites and resentful district rubes with lofty notions. I don't want to be in the Capitol; I want to be here in Central, but that's still not a possibility even though I'm legally an adult. So when this program was announced, Ma and Pa made a deal with me: if I entered into this contest and at least became a prospective candidate, they'd try to pull some strings to allow me to return; if I somehow win, then there should be no reason I couldn't return after I finish with everything.

So I agreed to their terms and applied; better than pouring over the genetic information of random agricultural products. After applying, I had to take a comprehensive test which served as a screening tool. There were the usual math, science, literacy, and conceptual questions — a bit on the steep side of the learning curve, but nothing out of the ordinary — but the biggest part of the test contained the subject of civics. Fortunately, they allowed ample time to study beforehand. And lo and behold, I passed, which made me a prospective candidate. From there, background info of the candidates gets sent to the committee so that they can decide on who they deem worthy to attend the program.

That last "background check" part is why I'm more than sure they're  _not_  going to pick me.

"And now, for the boys."

_Yeah yeah yeah… let's get this over with so I can go back ho—_

"Edwen Bannon."

_-me? Wait, what._

To say that I'm floored would be an understatement. I mean, I know that I'm smart enough to get in, but I also know that my background should have been considered a liability in the decision-making process; not to mention that it seems a bit unfair to pick the one guy who is actually able to afford this.

_What the hell were these people taking when they chose me?_

The announcer calling my name again shakes me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see that, to my abject mortification, the cameras have already focused on me and are projecting my wide-eyed and slackjawed visage for the crowds — not to mention those watching the nationwide broadcast — to see. Great, now I look as mentally-deficient as the mouth-breathing chuckleheads surrounding me.

After quickly clamping my mouth shut and adopting an expression of professional impassiveness, my previous bemusement is carefully smoothed away by me casually straightening my vest while commencing my walk to the center aisle. As I do so, the usual polite applause comes from the rest of the kids and their families, though those who do recognize me aren't bothering to hide their contempt. However, behind them, an uproarious cheer goes up from the crowd at the perimeter — something they didn't do for Russell, which confirms where she's not from — and I can't help but grin and wave a bit. While I may no longer reside in Central, everybody here so far treats me as if I haven't left in the first place; then again it's not like I left by choice, no thanks to the damn Rebellion.

Oh well… there's no point dwelling over the past when there's stuff to do now.

I take a look forward to see the people standing at the top of the steps. Besides the program representatives, there are the winners from Districts Eight, Twelve, and Eleven — Three's the last district for this section — plus District Three's governor who has come down from the new capital city, which is around a hundred klicks north of us; the place is still under refurbishment, which probably explains why we are having the ceremony here and not there. And then there are Central's officials: Mayor Charlton, Provost Lewis, Secretary Beetee — as the new department head, he has moved the Department of Science and Technology from the Capitol to here; it's fitting in my opinion — and of course, probably the scariest person in all of Panem, Commander Porus.

As I walk up, the officials are all applauding as well, and the ones from Central actually have smiles on their faces; well, except for the Commandant, but that's a given. Suddenly a look of confusion appears on the outsider officials' faces, the smiles turn to exasperation on the Central officials, and the Commandant pinches the bridge of her nose. When Beetee starts rapidly beckoning for me to hurry up, I comply but give him a questioning expression; he motions to one of the screens, and that's when I see a certain CMY-haired bastard striding purposefully on my trail and rapidly shortening the distance between us.

_Sonuva…_

Before I can pick up my pace, I'm lifted off the ground and thrown across a set of shoulders.

As I'm carried the rest of the way, I growl, "Luce, what the fu—"

"Language, Ned," the Corpsman chides in that infuriatingly chirpy manner of his. "This is still being broadcasted; don't want to make yourself look bad, do you?"

"You are doing a good job of it yourself. I hope you get NJP'd for this."

"Off-duty and out-of-uniform," he counters.

"Officially maybe. Unofficially, don't you still live in the same household as the Commandant?" AKA his mother; I suspect that he's not too old to get grounded or at least lectured to, which is a lot worse than it sounds when the person lecturing is taken into account. She's probably not too thrilled about the fact that Three, or at least Central, is rapidly becoming the laughing stock of Panem.

Luce's freckles are thrown into contrast as his face pales ever so slightly, but he casually states, "Worth it. Fact."

I sigh in response before noticing something: "Hmm… you're actually looking pretty sharp right now, and your cover's missing.  _She_  dressed you, didn't she."

"Thanks, but what makes you say that?"

"Because we both know that if fashion sense was tied to combat capability, you'd lose a fight against a snowflake… in summertime. Joe ain't any better, and you  _are_  old enough that the Commandant ain't going to be dressing you anytime soon. That only leaves the Bi—"

"Hold that thought for a moment, Ned," Luce interjects. "You know that I'm always one to respect your opinion. Just keep in mind that Lucy  _is_  still my sister and you  _are_  within my grasp."

Despite the friendly tone, I recognize a warning when I hear it. Sometimes it's easy to forget that this guy is capable of killing a person with his bare hands in more ways than I can count and that he can also inflict nonlethal-yet-excruciating bodily harm in just as many ways. "Well… you get the idea. So… is there a reason you actually decided to rock the smart casual look?"

"Ain't it obvious?" When I don't respond, he huffs slightly. "We knew that you'd win. So making sure that you have a memorable entrance is the least that we could do, and it helps to looks good while doing it."

"It seems that I'm the only one who reckons it's weird that I got chos—aah!"

We must have reached our destination as Luce immediately lets go, which causes me to tumble down his back. Fortunately, he's done this more than a few times in the past, so I know how to hit the ground in a way that not only prevents injury but also keeps my clothes from being scuffed.

However, while I stand back up, my attempt at salvaging any remnant of my dignity is short-lived as a torrent of ice water cascades over me. After the initial shock, I turn around and push back my now-soaking hair to look upon a grinning Joe and Brue — both also dressed fairly decently — holding a now-empty cooler between them. All of the outsiders in the crowd appear to be frozen in shock while those from Central have increased the volumes of their cheers; the officials just look resigned.

All three of the guys give me congratulatory pats on the back and tousle my hair before they quickly scurry off when the Commandant sends a scowl in their direction. Thing is, their version of a congratulations may have been on the… excessive side, but I can't say I'm not pleased to see them again. In general, it's good to be back, if only for a short while. If the outsiders have a problem with this display, they can go suck eggs and pound sand.

While still in a dripping state, I accept congratulations from the officials in a more professional manner, though the ones from Central also pat me on the back. I could be imagining it, but I swear that I even see a hint of a smile on the Commandant's face.

My future classmates are less amicable; all seven of them are looking at me with thinly veiled contempt and disdain. As we shake hands, I bare my teeth in a technical smile and, without visibly moving my lips, say, "Hey guys! Do I know any of you?" A slight check verifies that sound is not being broadcasted.  _Good._

Russell decides to speak for the group. "No…"

At her answer, I make sure they all get a good look at my face and eyes before stating about how much I really care what they think:

"Then fuck off."

Disdain is replaced by shock as they quickly focus more on looking presentable for the cameras, which I also turn to smile for.

Who says I can't be diplomatic?

~oOo~

After the ceremony, the trip to the Capitol is pretty uneventful. Before the train left, we were allowed to mingle around; so most of the wait was spent with Ma and Pa fretting over me and wishing the best of luck. Of course both of them also warned me to stay out of trouble as much as I can since the Capitol is a media haven and, unlike West City, isn't a place where they can keep me out of the spotlight if I get caught doing anything risky. In all honesty, I already knew that and planned on keeping a low profile anyways; the last thing I want is to be the source of a smear campaign on the company. But, I allowed them to voice their concerns; after all, they may be a bit overbearing sometimes but still are my folks. The guys also managed to catch me right before I left — sure enough, all three were chewed-out by the Commandant before they were free to go — and gave me a couple gifts to liven up wherever I'm going to be staying.

The train itself is actually a refurbished tribute train, with most of the amenities still intact; though from what I've been told, the food we're provided is a lot more low-key than what was provided for Games tributes. Two other trains are tasked with bringing winners to the Capitol: one goes through Ten, Five, and the former Career districts, while the other's in charge of Thirteen, Six, Seven, and Nine. They apparently carefully staged the ceremony schedules to have everybody arrive at around the same time.

Most of the time, I keep to myself except for whenever it comes time to eat, and the others don't really bother interacting with me in turn. The only two who seemed to have already gotten over the initial shock of my introduction to them are the cousins from Eight: Natt and Danni Jolson. Then again, if the marks on their bodies are any indication, they have probably seen and experienced more than the other kids. Also, it doesn't mean that they've stopped giving me resentful glances.

In the meantime, while it won't be until we reach the Capitol when we receive the majority of the specific information pertaining to the program, a sheet goes around which shows who we are going to be paired with as roommates. Funnily enough, all that's provided is a name; no picture; no district. Presumably, the whole idea is for everybody to have no preconceptions about who they room with. Of course, the fact that you can watch the reapi— I mean acceptance ceremonies sort of negates that. Granted, I haven't watched them and can't be assed to watch the replays, so I'll be going in blind.

_Edwen Bannon_

_Diocletian Cohen_

Or not.

They may not state what district the guy comes from, but I've been around enough Guardians to peg a name as being Two-ish. If so, this may be interesting; I wonder if he comes from a Peacekeeper-slash-Career or geological-slash-industrial background. Probably the latter since a good chunk of those on the other side of the war fled the country to settle north of the Hadean Wastes — Paylor's currently in negotiations with them with the hope that they come back into the fold; at the very least, things seem to be civil enough that they're trading with us — and almost all of the kids who were training to be Careers have mysteriously disappeared for some reason.

In any case, all I'm hoping for is that this "Diocletian" won't be some preachy pain in the ass like many kids have become after the Rebellion. I also hope that he's within half-a-foot of me.

It's not long before the train is plunged into darkness, which must mean that we're getting close. When we finally reemerge from the mountain tunnel, the majority of the kids run to the widow to peer outside with expressions of curiosity. The only ones who haven't moved from our spots are me and the duo from Eight; I'm sure they've been here before and not just as the average visitor. In my case, I've already visited once as well but only right after the double-demise of Paylor's immediate predecessors, and it was via aircraft instead of train; also I'm right by the window already so I don't have to exert myself to take a look outside.

By now, they've cleaned up all the debris from the war, and much of the city has been renovated and rebuilt already. The buildings aren't as ridiculously gaudy as they used to be, but that's not saying much. Even with the redistribution in effect, I guess that some things never change.

As the train pulls into the station, I can see that the other two have just made it as well; their passengers are already disembarking. After gathering our stuff, we end up doing the same and join our interdistrict compatriots in the main hall where everybody is told to find their roommate and buddy-up with them to get to know each other. They must have seen the footage as the process goes pretty smoothly, though Natt isn't too thrilled at being paired with the guy from One; I forget if the male's Opal and the female's Velvet, or if it's the other way around. In due time, everybody's paired up… except for me.

_Where the hell is that guy?_

After a couple minutes of looking around and making sure that it wasn't just a case of us missing each other, I decide to turn around and head back to the train platform.

_Welp, this was a waste of my ti—_

I barely get to take a step forward when I collide face-first into what feels like a brick wall — or maybe it collided with me — and get knocked backwards to the ground.

"Aah! Oh man, I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" To his credit, the guy does sound genuinely distressed. Also, judging from his voice — the rolling quality suggesting point of origin and reedy pitch betraying age — I think I just found my roommate. "Here, let me help you up."

Normally, I'm one to help myself up, but I'm too busy massaging my nose to object being lifted to my feet. "Thanks." After making sure everything's accounted for, I finally take a look at the source of the collision. "But don't worry, I'm a—aww... you have got to be shitting me…"

 _Okay, relax… just because the guy in front of you has a Two accent and looks to be within the age range, and there's nobody else around that fits the profile, it doesn't mean he's your roommate. There's an easy way to confirm this._  So I push my initial dismay under and casually ask, "Diocletian?"

The kid looks a bit uneasy — actually his uneasiness seems to be a continuation of me cussing to his face — but states, "Yeah. Though if you don't mind, I prefer Dio."  _Dammit!_ "You're Edwen, right?"

Instead of answering right away, I take a good long gander at the source of my dismay. My hope for a roommate who's within six inches of height hasn't just failed to be fulfilled; it's been smashed to pieces and burnt to cinders. He's not just taller than me but actually has at least a foot on my height; hell, he possibly has an inch or two on Luce, and it's clear that he's just as athletic in build which is no small feat.

The next observation actually doesn't bug me at all like the first one, but it's likely that my prediction of him not being from a Peacekeeper-slash-Career background will be proven false as well. Seriously, this guy looks like a poster child for Career recruitment. Even disregarding the physical build, everything about him screams Two-based military discipline: sandy hair cut within regulation, light girdle-secured tunic fitted over a collared t-shirt and trousers, said trousers without a trace of wrinkling and tucked neatly into canvas-legging-secured boots, said boots shined to an even matte finish… The only thing that potentially mars the clean-cut image is the dimpled scar near his left temple; however, even that just helps to show off a martial appearance.

In the end though, the ideal Career facade falls short a bit. Because, for all of the grooming, there is this quality to the kid that hints that he'd be a piss-poor Career. It could be the constant fidgeting as I scrutinize him. It could be the friendly and concerned tone in his voice which I've never heard in any Career interview. It could be the openness in those amber eyes — the hue of the irises is even brighter than that of the Eights and Eleveners; bright enough to veer towards the same kind of golden yellow found in certain carnivorans and birds of prey — that lacks any sort of arrogance or aggression, which is more than I can say for the other kids in this program.

Whatever it is, for some irrational reason, I'm finding this not-Career to be quite agreeable. So I exhale a huff of air before, against better judgment, offering my hand to state, "Just call me 'Ned'."

Once I say that, much of the nervous fidgeting dissipates as a relieved smile shines on Dio's face and he gives me an eager, if crushing, handshake. Though I notice that he also still has reservations about something judging by the way he looks at me; that kind of look where you know that someone has an opinion about you but is too polite to say anything even though the lack of subtlety renders the precaution moot. So I roll my eyes and sigh, "If we're going to be roommates, you might as well get whatever's on your mind off."

My statement startles Dio, and the fidgeting comes back in full force. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."  _Hopefully it's about the scars, my eyes, or even my background. As long as it's not about—_

My train of thought is interrupted by him grabbing my sides with both hands and effortlessly lifting me up to be held at arm's-length so that my eyes are level with his.

Before I can ask my roommate what the hell he's doing, the smile on his face widens with a childlike glee that portends incoming horror.

And that's when the idiot pulls me into a crushing hug to, over my suffocated squawks of protest, squeal, "You're. Just. So. Portable!"

This is going to be a long year…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I thought that'd it be fun to make a little post-MJ slice-of-life story, but there's another purpose to this fic. 
> 
> What Panem would look like during its post-war reconstruction period? What kind of challenges would it face? What resentments would linger? What would the government look like and how are diplomatic relations? Stuff like that. Despite this being an OC fic, there will be frequent intersections with canon characters here and there.
> 
> Oh, and it probably goes without saying that the opinions espoused by Ned aren't necessarily that of the author. Seriously, he is not somebody I would normally consider to be a role model.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy.


	2. A Capitol Tour

If I wanted an overly-friendly spaz to welcome us, I would have asked for Luce. Because Delly Cartwright makes the Bastard utterly mellow in comparison. Nobody should be this perpetually cheerful; it's unnatural. The creepiest part is that it doesn't even look like some façade; she actually seems to genuinely like interacting with all of us. To top it off, she's going to be our RA; aka our residence floor babysitter.

After getting an earful of how much this is going to be "such a great experience", we finally begin registering at a table, where we each receive electronic tablet. After we set up our accounts — some of the kids are hilariously inept at such a simple procedure — the tablets are purposed to both serve as work stations and hold all of our personal information as pertains to the program: class schedules, grade information, maps of campus and list of organizations, and etc. We also have our pictures taken so that we receive our ID cards, which not only allows us access at many of the facilities on campus, but also will serve as a meal ticket and key to our residences. Admittedly, they give us quite a convenient set-up; not as convenient as having everything at the swipe of a fingerprint, but apparently tech like that is looked upon suspiciously by many in the districts.

With that out of the way, we finally get ready to head over to our destination. As our group exits the station to come out into a large plaza, we find ourselves facing a midsized — not much bigger than a bus or train car — hovercraft. It's one of those high-end short-distance transports, with engines, wings, and repulsors set upon the roof of the vehicle so as to give the floor-to-ceiling windows an unobstructed view. Waiting outside of the aircraft is someone whom I assume is the pilot: a squirrely-looking guy who has to be around the same age as us or, at most, in his very early twenties; also on his flight suit, there's a nametag that reads as "Jenson".

Delly decides to introduce him to us: "This is Julian, and he's going to be your pilot not just for our journey to the university but whenever there's going to a group trip anywhere within a short distance. I can tell you that he's an excellent flyer and knows this city like the back of his hand."

Jenson gives a nervous laugh at the compliment. "Thanks Delly. Anyways, I'm glad to meet you guys, and I'll be happy to answer any questions you may have, be it now or later, about the Capitol — places to eat, things to do, neighborhoods to avoid… — so that you can settle in as best as possible. Right now, I'm supposed to be taking you to the campus, but Delly here suggested that we use this time to give a short tour. We have the time, and my supervisors gave the O.K., so I'll be familiarizing you with this city. Anyways," he says with a gesture towards the transport, "I'm ready to go when all of you are."

As we board the craft, Jenson tries greeting us individually… with mixed results. Most are cordial but some are downright brusque; Dio seems to be the only one who genuinely responds back to the greeting in a friendly manner. Especially noticeable is the way Natt is staring at Jenson with narrow-eyed suspicion the whole time; when the boy from Eight finally passes the Capitol pilot, I can almost see the pilot wilting under his gaze. I'll admit, there is something about the latter that's nagging me a bit.

It doesn't take long after we secure our stuff and find our seats that the transport lifts off the ground. You can definitely tell which of the kids have never flown before as they're either on the verge of panic or plastering themselves onto the window in a manner mimicking tree frogs; my roommate's the latter. The whole time, as the transport flies low and at a leisurely pace, our pilot announces the sights over the intercom.

Most of what's the Capitol is pretty much a constructed platform situated on top of a reservoir; the bulk of which is roughly a four-by-four-mile square. Sure there are suburbs and parks that sprawl a bit up the steep hills, but consider the platform to be the core of the city. The result is a setup that's pretty easy to figure out and simple to travel around; seriously, if you can't navigate a grid like this, something wrong with you. Around the whole setup is a weak force field that works to keep the climate and temperature stable, especially during the winter when it supposedly gets cold as balls; one of the key events to bring the city to its knees during the invasion was supposedly taking down the weather control as winter was just starting up.

After leaving the transportation and industrial sector, we fly over District Town, which gets its namesake from its inhabitants. While sketchy in parts, it's a decent place; however, the surrounding neighborhood is definitely on the sketchy side. The sketch gradually gives way to Midtown, which is just regular mixed-use residential and commercial development; the average Capitol citizen lives here. Towards the southern quadrant of the square, however, the affluence goes up immediately, with luxury high-rises and entertainment districts overlooking a promenade and marinas lining the lakeside; there are similar lake-side amenities on the northern quadrant. The mountainsides are also occupied by high-end development in the form of individual homes and mansions alongside scenic parks; apparently a really popular one on the southern half is Monument Park on Viminalis Hill.

Even with all this prosperity on display, it's clear from the sky that the effects of the war still linger. Sure, most streets have been fixed and cleared of rubble, and people can be seen milling about their daily business. However, a few buildings still lie abandoned and even wrecked in some places. It's especially clear at the middle of the city in Downtown, as gleaming skyscrapers bustling with workers or occupied by residents stand next to office buildings that haven't been fixed yet due to vacancies; said vacancies tend to be a case of businesses actually moving into the districts, with only branch offices — mainly focusing on the financial and trade aspects — remaining here. After soaring over Center Lake and past the former Games Headquarters — the skyscraper practically looms over the rest of the city — we continue eastwards over the neighborhoods and governmental buildings of the eastern quadrant.

What truly catches everybody's attention to the southeast is the mountainside community insulated from the rest of the city by distance and elevation: Quirinal or, as it's more commonly called, Embassy Row. Most of the embassies lining a single boulevard are done in the architectural styles of the respective nations that they represent, which creates an eclectic landscape; considering how the existence of other nations out there is a recent fact to the majority of Panem's people, it's unsurprising that the sight is a source of interest by those here in the transport. What gains _my_ attention is the fact that some of the embassies are currently vacant, while others seem to just be finishing up construction. Among the newer embassies, I recognize that of Neo-Phoenicia, as well as the Pacific League. However several of the ones under construction are lost to me: one of them has a tiered roof and a symbol of a wheel with eight spokes; another is domed and has the symbol of a crescent moon with a star; the last is tan with a red-tiled roof and is topped with that plus-like symbol that Luce and the Bitch currently wear around their necks. I'll probably find out later.

Soon we come across the main plaza of the Capitol, now named Primrose Circle. They even renovated it in a way that has the ground tiles that create the four-petal form that characterizes the flower when viewed from above. On one end of the Circle, there is the boulevard that the chariots came down; flanking it are the stands and statues of all seventy-five victors. On the other side is the Presidential Mansion, which definitely doesn't look like there has even been a scratch on it.

Somewhere past the skyscraper complex that houses Panem General, the transport shudders a bit. That is accompanied by a calm announcement that we've hit some turbulence and will need to land immediately; fortunately, we are already near our destination anyways. However, something seems a bit… off about that announcement. It's not until I look out the window then up that I realize what the issue is; since there is no purpose in announcing it, I decide to keep my mouth shut, though the kids from Six have figured it out as well, judging from their ashen expressions. Either way, we land without incident.

Once the doors open, our pilot stands by the exit with a smile to farewell everybody as they disembark. Jenson's smile only falters when Natt stops again to scrutinize him a bit more before he departs. That's when I'm pretty sure I know what's nagging me about the pilot, and there's just one way to find out; so I decide to hang back until the last person has departed; or at least second-to-last as Dio seems to be refusing to leave until I do.

After the last student has disembarked, Jenson lets out what sounds like a sigh of relief as he shakily allows himself to lean back against the nearest wall; he reacts with just a weak smile and the slightest nod once Dio — after some assurance that I'll be right on his footsteps — walks in his direction. It's at this moment that I decide to spring my little test.

_How does the Sergeant Major do it again? Let's see…_

"Fix yourself, soldier!"

Getting a reaction is actually a bit of a crapshoot even if you get the tone just right, which in itself is quite a challenge; also I had to tweak the statement a bit since it's a different type of service. In this case though, I'm not disappointed. The moment I bark out that demand, the effect is practically instantaneous: Jensen immediately stands at attention, and the look on his face shows him steeling himself for some kind of verbal ass-chewing. The real funny thing is that Dio does the exact same thing.

Just a couple seconds pass before they both realize that this was a trick and try to relax their stance, but the damage has been done already. My roommate turns to stare at me with an expression of extreme mortification before bolting out of the transport as if it was on fire; I quickly glance around just in case it actually is. While Jenson hasn't fled the scene as well, he isn't doing that much better judging by the way that his face is rapidly draining of color.

"Well… well… well… What do we have here?" I drawl while casually strolling toward the pilot.

"Please don't tell anybody." The guy's voice comes out quite pitiful, and he looks ready to crawl into a hole and die.

I decide to feign ignorance to prolong the fun. "Tell anybody what?"

"That I…"

"That you…" I motion him to continue. "Go on… you can say it."

"That I… was… a—"

"—Peacekeeper?" Figuring that this conversation is not going to be done before the end of the year without any prodding, I helpfully finish off the sentence for him. "You were intending on saying 'Peacekeeper', right?"

Jenson hesitantly nods his head.  _Some Peacekeeper this loser is; probably was in a noncombat role._  "How could you tell?"

"How could I  _not_  tell?" I chortle. "Worn-down Capitol accent… haircut and general composure… my little test being a resounding success… After a while it becomes a tad obvious that military training tends to leave a noticeable impact, especially with you Peacekeepers."

"Still, please don't tell your friends."

Now  _that_  causes me to bark out a laugh. "Them? My friends? If you think that those idiots are my friends, you have another thing coming." Hell, even if they weren't a bunch of resentful rubes, the whole concept of making friends is utterly ridiculous to me. "But let me guess: you're afraid if that collection of young district dwellers finds out there's a Big Bad Peacekeeper in their midst, they'd give you grief, hmm?"

The pilot nods, which causes me to shrug in response. "Fair enough. But, to be frank, I think that Natty Reb has already figured it out judging by the way he looked ready to bludgeon you with that stick he keep up his ass," I note. "Anyways, I also take it your employer knows anyways."

"She knows. In fact, she decided to hire me almost right after I surrendered; apparently, she was impressed about my flying skills," he explains while fidgeting and looking at me earnestly. "You know, I have never hurt anybody; at least not intentionally. I was just a courier and assisted with the evacuation of—"

" _You know_ , I really don't care." I interrupt while holding my hand up to keep him from probably explaining his entire life story. "I just wanted to see if my suspicions were true; nothing more, nothing less."

As I begin to walk past Jenson, he fidgets some more before finally asking, "So…"

I stop long enough to huff in exasperation. "No, I'm not going to tell anyone. A good chunk of security for my folks' company consists of former Peacekeepers; you think I'm going to mind one being a glorified bus driver? If you were one of those assholes who ran around the districts to make everybody's life miserable while bleating about honor, I highly doubt that you'd be hired. So get a hold of yourself." He relaxes and exhales long enough for me to rummage in my vest pocket. "Oh, by the way, catch!"

With just that warning, I toss a silver in Julian Jenson's direction; despite the short notice, he reflexively snatches the coin from the air. When the pilot gets a better look at the catch, his eyes widen. "This—"

"— is a tip; services well-rendered are well-rewarded," I chirp. "The praise for your piloting skills wasn't unfounded. So thanks for the tour and keeping us from dying during that engine failure."

I don't bother looking back as I walk out to rejoin the the group currently milling around the small square. For whatever reason, Dio's looking at me like a puppy who accidentally wandered into my path and got kicked in the process; something tells me that it has something to do with my little social experiment prior.

"So…" I state as I sidle next to my roommate, ignoring his flinch — Does he expect me to strike him or something? — in favor of nodding to the rest of our classmates. "Did I miss anything?"

Dio's anxiety-laden expression gets replaced by one of confusion before he visibly relaxes and exhales a sigh of seeming relief. "Nope. They are just allowing us to mill around a bit. So, why'd you want to hang back?"

 _I think you know…_  However, something tells me that the topic is something that I should avoid. "I decided to compliment our pilot on his flying skills and give him a tip."

"Oh. That's nice of you."

"Has nothing to do with niceness," I state with a shrug. "Good performance should always be rewarded."

"And how much did you reward this…  _pilot_?" a new voice asks, and I turn towards the source to see a sneering Natt.

If that was supposed to be some attempt at shaming me or something, it's not really working, "A silver," I reply in a casual manner; Dio's eyes go wide at this.

The boy from Eight is less impressed as he crosses his arms and snorts, "Typical…"

Despite me already dismissing the former rebel as not worth my time, his contempt still causes my ire to rise. "In what way? Please, do elaborate."

"Only a kid like you, who's living on mommy and daddy's bank, would so blithely toss around silvers to every single person they meet." I can practically feel the resentment rolling off of him.

"Haha! Oh man, if you think I'm the type to give hand-outs, well you have another thing coming."

Natt's resentment shifts to clear disgust. " _Of course_ not. We're all beneath you. All of us except for Peacekeepers, apparently." Welp, I guess that not-secret's out of the bag.

There's more nervous shifting around from my roommate, whom I ignore to retort, "If that  _former_  Peacekeeper kept our hovercraft having an unpleasant reunion with the ground — ask the Sixers; they know what I'm talking about — of course I will hold him in higher esteem than the rest of you. What have you done to earn my direct respect?"

"I don't need your respect." Looks like somebody's nerve was struck. "I fought in the Rebe—"

"Well aren't you a precious little snowflake. 'Ooh, look at me: I fought in the Rebellion. I fired guns and laid my enemies low. Pewpewpew!'" Now I'm really riling him up. "Well, so have my folks and several hundred thousand other people; you don't see the majority of them riding on that legacy. Not to mention that my family already is one of the biggest sponsors for the veterans' pensions. So besides that, don't expect a copper from me unless you show that you've earned it. And I assure you: if Jenson was a former rebel instead of a Peacekeeper, I'd give a silver to him all the same."

At this point, considering the way that he's glaring at me, Natt looks ready to escalate our little disagreement to the physical level. However, he settles for shaking his head with a huff and stomping off.

"What was he talking about? Why did he seem to be so angry with you?"

I airily dismiss Dio's query with a wave. "I think Natty Rebel, and everybody else, is just a bit miffed that the guy who could already easily afford to be here was chosen; granted,  _I myself_  am still a bit confused as to why I'm here."

"You do seem to have a lot of money if you considered a silver to be a tip." The funny thing is that Dio actually doesn't sound envious or anything; just merely curious. Barring those from Central or at a similar social class, plus a select few in West City, my peers usually fall into two categories: those who resent the hell out of me, or those who try to mooch for a hand-out; when I turn the latter down, they always transform into the former.

That's when a realization hits me, and now it's my turn to be astonished. "You… you really don't know who I am?"

"Um… your name is Edwen Bannon, and you're from District Three?"

"But you don't know what my family does." He shakes his head. "They didn't make any commentary during the ceremony? You haven't seen the tabloids going on about an 'unknown child'."

"I didn't watch the whole thing," he admits. "And I don't pay attention to tabloids."

"Huh…"  _Well, this is a first. Then again…_  "At the very least, do you recognize this?" I hold out the collar of my shirt to him so that he could get a good look at its pin securing it.

This time, I can see recognition dawn on Dio's face as gets a good look of the symbol: a three-pointed star, oriented point down, encircled by three figures similar to stylized comets. Right on the heels of that recognition is no small amount of realization as his jaw goes slack. "I-I know that your last name's Bannon, but I didn't want to assume that—"

"— my ma-m and dad are the co-CEOs of Panem Dynamics? It's understandable that you didn't make the connection; they're way more pleasant and generous than me."

"I didn't want to assume…" he repeats almost inaudibly.

"Well… consider yourself in the minority." I wonder how he's going to act now that he knows. Is he going to start mooching like the rest of the parasites, or is he going to skip that part and be a resentful little prick? I ready myself for either option.

Instead, my roommate actually looks a bit thoughtful. "Okay, now I think I understand why the other students are angry. I mean, from the impressions I've had about the company, your parents could probably buy the entire university itself."  _Don't doubt it…_  "So it does seem a bit unfair that you got in while somebody who wouldn't even be able to afford to travel here didn't.

"However, I'm sure that the committee did take your wealth into account, and I've always had the impression that your parents are very decent people who wouldn't do something like directly influence the decision-making. So there must have been a good reason that they selected you, which means that you still earned your place," he concludes with a smile.

Okay, out of all of the possible outcomes, I was not expecting this. "Wait, so you're not mad?"

Dio looks legitimately confused by my question and tilts his head like a dog that doesn't know what to make of a situation. "Why should I be mad?"

"Because most people either loathe me for having more than them, or they ask me for a hand-out… followed by the loathing when they figure out my belief that altruism is for suckers."

"That's silly… If it wasn't for your parents' company, a lot of people in my district may have lost their jobs when another company tried to take control of the weapons factories and move them to District Six. So, I don't see any reason to resent them for them for being prosperous, and I don't see any reason to hate you just because you have money.

"Also, I was always taught that you should be able to stand on your own two feet and only request help when you are sure that you can return the favor later on. Demanding a hand-out is a sign of weakness and selfishness. And I don't want to be weak…"

The last sentence is murmured so quietly that I almost miss it. I don't see why he has to state it under his breath though; weakness is something that should always be considered undesirable. Also, I knew about Panem Dynamics gaining control of the Two factories before its main competitor could get its greasy mitts on them, but I didn't expect that there would be such a positive reaction from that; what I do remember was how it didn't exactly endear us to some of the rabble who wanted Two completely emasculated.

Despite the rationales, this kid seems stranger by the minute.

"Of course, I wouldn't be opposed to you giving a little gift out of the goodness of your heart," he adds with a grin while nudging me. I respond with a snort and nudge back harder — I might as well be nudging a stone pillar — which just causes him to laugh and raise his hands in good-humored placation.

"They teach you that in Career school?"

The moment I make that quip, Dio's grin drops away and is immediately replaced by the same kicked-puppy expression.  _Huh… guess that's another conversation topic to avoid._ Fortunately that look on his face doesn't remain as he becomes distracted by Delly telling us that it's time to go on the move again. Dio's attention being able to be sidetracked easily is something that will probably be quite useful for me.

Anyways, we are led over to a large auditorium where, for whatever reason, a security checkpoint is set up after the entrance. After the guards get intimate with us, we are allowed inside where we take our seats. The program starts off with a usual spiel from the university's chancellor welcoming us to this school; that's followed by another official giving a brief overview of the school itself as well as what our orientation for the next several weeks will consist off. The next few speeches seem to muddle together and, soon, some of us are actually beginning to dose off. That doesn't last long since the last speaker, who comes in through a side entrance once it's her turn to talk, is a bit of a surprise to all of us.

It's President Paylor herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a basic layout of my interpretation of the Capitol. Certain spots and neighborhoods will definitely be explored later on.
> 
> It's not hard to see Delly volunteering for this kind of position. I imagine her as that RA that, for some reason, seems to have an unlimited source of energy. For anybody who has lived in a residence hall, you probably know what I'm talking about; if not from your floor, at least from another.
> 
> The fate of Peacekeepers after the war's end is probably something that would be pretty contentious. Majority of the brutal or zealous ones would definitely be dead or on trial, with some persisting as insurgents. The vast majority of survivors though are average individuals who were on the wrong side. As I hinted, many fled and settled elsewhere; in this case, they settled right outside Two. However, most would still reside in Panem, be they unable or unwilling to leave.
> 
> In keeping with the Roman theme, Panem's currency is the denarius; due to the habit of people keeping with something familiar, it didn't change after the Rebellion was over, though the imagery was amended. One denarius would be roughly equivalent to a USD in worth. The physical currency is mainly coin-based for now, though it's transitioning to paper: twenty stones, with each stone representing five cents, go into a denarius; one denarius is represented by a copper; five coppers go into a nickel; four nickels go into a bronze; five bronzes go into a silver; ten silvers go into a gold; after that point, you might as well just write a check or pay electronically.


	3. Settling In

The president, despite having a tired quality to her, beams at all of us before commencing:

"I've been around enough kids to know that you're all bored out of your minds and itching to get out of here, so I'm going to make this short.

"It is my belief that young people are integral to the building and sustainment of a nation. My predecessors thought the same but in a twisted way; Snow considered them to be tools to terrify subjects while Coin considered them tools to amass power." Funnily enough, the ones from Thirteen don't look too offended at that statement; then again, I doubt the crazies who supported that psychotic bitch are willing to have anything to do with Paylor anyways. "The thing is: you are not tools; you're real-life people with aspirations of your own. Those aspirations could help lead Panem to something new.

"I am not going to mince words: this nation is still in a delicate state. Yes, we are rebuilding, but it's that rebuilding period where we are most vulnerable. And in the end, it is your generation and the following one that will inherit the result. At the same time, this is also a time where we have a practical blank slate to work from, and where we can start anew, regardless of our pasts." I swear that she's looking in my direction while saying that. "That is why I started this program: to give  _you_  the tools to help build this country toward the better tomorrow.

"So I hope you will make the most of this."

A smile forms on the president's face while she looks at us; it's as if she's a schoolteacher appraising her favorite pupils. It's admittedly a bit strange to see her like this. I mean, my folks have told me that she's good people and such, though I myself have never met her in person; however, the borderline-maternal approach she has now still feels jarring from my preconceptions. "Of course, things should never be all work. So in the meantime, I hope that you all will enjoy yourself here, make new friends, and have fresh experiences.

"You're all still young, so make this time count."

~oOo~

After Paylor's little speech, we're taken to a dining hall and given dinner with ample time to mingle. As I munch on another slice of pizza — most of the kids act like they haven't seen such a thing before — I take note of my surroundings.

Already it's clear that in some spots, social groups are starting to be formed. It also looks like Dio's trying to make friends with the other kids, with very lackluster results. Most them, including the girl from his own district, act quite aloof; the ones from Six, Eight, Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen, however, seem to view him with thinly-veiled contempt. Delly's the only one who talking to him amicably, but I suspect that's because she's like that with everybody, so it doesn't really count. Finally, he seems to give up on that, and comes back to sit right next to me.

"Well, that seemed to go well," I can't help but quip.

Dio actually doesn't look bothered at all and simply shrugs in response. "It couldn't hurt to try. What about you? All I've seen you do is sit alone in this corner and eat. Aren't you going to try and make friends?"

His statement is so ridiculous that I can't help but bark out a laugh. "You seem to forget that these folks really don't care for me."

"Well maybe if you took the time—"

"As supposed to actually doing something else constructive? Yeah no. If I'm going to be wasting my time, I'd rather enjoy myself in the process. Besides…" I can just feel the bile rising up at just the notion of the concept. "I don't do friendship."

My roommate seems to be completely taken aback. "What's so bad about having a friend?"

"Oh I'm sure others find it to be quite beneficial; it's just not for me. Too much commitment towards maintaining a bond that also requires work from the other side; it's the very definition of 'unreliable'." I don't tell him that I do have several guys whom I would  _possibly_  call friends; however, shortly after we reached that state, I had to leave Central which rendered the whole thing pointless. Funny how things like that work out… not.

"So…" He seems to be apprehensive when asking the next question: "What does that make us then?"

 _Is-is he implying that he wants us to be… friends?_  "Roommates."  _Nothing more… nothing less…_

It's obvious that's not the answer Dio's looking for.  _Well too bad._  At the same time, the rapid play of emotion on his face indicates that he's still trying figure out what to do with the information given. Finally, he gives another small shrug with a smile and states, "Fair enough. It's better than nothing."

_Weirdo…_

After the sun has finally set, we are finally taken to where we're staying, which is great because I'm exhausted. Our living quarters are located in a skyscraper at the far end of campus and overlooking one of the larger canals; compared to other buildings in the Capitol, it's positively modest in appearance with a rectangular cross-section. Our RA tells us that, since this building was recently renovated and refurbished, they have the entire top floor reserved for first-years of the program.

When we arrive on our level, it's indeed clear that they spared no expense in trying to make us comfortable as possible. I mean it's not the type of luxury one expects from an upper class citizen. Rather it's simply a nice cozy and up-to-date set-up. Most of the floor is take up by a large high-ceilinged — probably about thirty feet high — common area furnished with sofas, tables, an entertainment system, and various games; at the base of the structure is also supposedly a swimming pool, exercise area, and laundry facilities. On opposite ends of the space are floor-to-ceiling windows that angle out and give an expansive view of the campus on one side and the canal with the lake beyond on the other. The other two sides contain our rooms, with seven dorms each opposite from one another, as well as the access points and a fully-furnished kitchen; on top of our room-and-board, we are each given a small stipend so as to be able to purchase stuff around town.

At this point, I don't think these soon-to-be residents know what to do with what they are given right now.

Finally, we are let go and allowed to retire into the dorms. Our rooms are just as comfortably furnished as the outside, with, among other things, a sturdy good-sized bunk bed, large sofa, two desks, walk-in closet, and a good-sized bathroom near the entrance; being on the western side also gives us a good view of the illuminated city.

Also noticeable is that the rest of our stuff is already here. Before heading to the ceremony, there were instructions to pack anything I didn't want to carry with me ahead of time and put it all in a centralized location. I don't know if it was grabbed during the ceremony itself or when my folks got back home; either way, they managed to bring everything here by the time we arrived, which is admittedly pretty impressive.

As I begin taking all essentials out — I'll get to the rest tomorrow — and putting them in the appropriate locations, I realize that neither of us has actually taken a claim to the bunk spots yet. Thing is, I'm not sure how to request the lower bunk without making it look like I'm asking for an easier-to-reach level.

Fortunately, Dio makes the decision for me. "Is it okay if I take the top bunk?"

Okay, I can't look too thrilled at the answer, so I decide to challenge him a bit. "Any reason you want that one?"

I don't know why, but he actually looks a bit hesitant in answering me. "I just… like the view of the city." It sounds like there's something more to that pitifully weak rationale, but I'm not going to dispute it. So I just wave my hand in assent before taking several heavy blankets out to install as a curtain around my bed; with everything in place, I follow up with a shower.

After washing and steaming away away the day from myself — the shower's one of those awesome ones with nozzles everywhere — I come out to find that my roommate has already managed to unpack and organize all of his belongings; he even took the time to arrange the stuff on his desk in such a freakishly orderly manner that it looks like a machine did the job. It makes my side look like a tornado went through it.

"Shower's free," I grunt.

"'kay…" Dio murmurs; right now all of his attention is not on me but the device installed in our room. I recognize the model; it was actually made for the Capitol several years before the Rebellion but is currently starting to become a hot consumer item for those in the district who are able to afford it. With the thing on, it gives an impression that our room has no walls or ceiling, with scenery and other imagery projected on all sides; additional holographic projectors help give more depth to the illusion by having stuff animated in space between.

As a hummingbird flits around me, I can't help but smirk at my roommate's childish enthusiasm. "Enjoying yourself?"

Despite the deadpan delivery, Dio doesn't look the slightest bit bemused by my query. In fact, he positively beams at me with wide eyes and an even wider grin. "This is seriously wonderful!"

"Well it's from Three; expect nothing but the best," I yawn before crawling into my sanctuary. "Alright, I'm going to hit the sack. See you in the morning."

I'm just about settled in perfectly when Dio's voice calls from beyond the curtain: "Hey Ned?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you mind if I set this… thingy so that it projects something through the night?" he asks before adding hastily, "Nothing too bright or anything! Just something like the stars."

 _Strange request but okay…_ "Light's blocked from entering here so it shouldn't be a problem." I decide to add in a request of my own. "You mind if I play music while I sleep?" I turn the player on so that he's knows what I listen to.

"Not at all. Goodnight, Ned…"

"'night," I respond before allowing myself to drift off to blissful uninterrupted sleep.

~oOo~

Or not.

_What the…?_

I'm awoken from my slumber by a strange keening noise emanating above me. It's strange enough that my curiosity is piqued, so I unfurl myself from my comforter, crawl to the edge of bed, and perch at the lip to pop my head up.

With the projector on — it's indeed set to a celestial setting; nebula from the looks of it — I get a good look at the top bunk, and the sight that greets me is… weird to say the least.

It looks like Dio's still asleep, but his version of sleep doesn't seem to be a restful one. He's curled up in a compact ball — never would have expected someone of his size to be able to create such a small profile — and clutching tightly at his sheets. Every now and then, his body would tremble as if the temperature's freezing… or he's scared of something. However, that's not the weirdest part; what's weird is the whimpering that emanates from him, punctuated with what sounds suspiciously like pleas.

I take in the scene for about minute before finally shrugging and lowering back down into my own bed to lie on my back as the situation at hand is mulled over. My roommate does seem to be the ridiculously sensitive sort, so it's probably just a bad dream or something similar. Even if it isn't, there's no sign that it bugs him during the daytime, and it's not like it affects me.  _So…_

With that in mind, I turn the volume to the music up just enough to drown out the ambient noise and re-cocoon myself to settle comfortably back into place.

_Not my problem._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned Bannon, role model extraordinaire. PBS Kids should have him host a daytime show; what's the worse that could happen?


	4. A Little Jog

"Just out of curiosity…"

"Yeah?"

"Back in Two… did you have a uniform for every situation possible?"

My query causes Dio to frown a bit in a thoughtful manner. "Not  _everything_. We do still have an informal public dress code though. Why do you ask?"

 _Maybe because of the little fact that, while you've switched from trousers to shorts, you still look like you're trying to fit within military regulations… and then some_ _…_ _without even wearing a uniform._  Hell, my old Scout uniform looks way more casual in comparison. "Oh, no reason."

I will say that the dress code explanation gives explanation to why young Twofers seem incapable of dressing themselves smartly if the outfit doesn't involve a uniform, clear-cut regulations, or traditional attire. I've seen it with the boots that come into Central — fortunately, within several months, most of them do eventually gain some sense in how to clothe themselves — and I'm seeing it with this kid; I can't make a judgment about Peacekeepers since I've only seen them in uniform or Careers for obvious reasons. Granted, they may look uptight, but Twofers aren't as bad as Thirteeners.

Oh well, at least it looks comfortable and practical for the season. It's also probably good that the color scheme of the garment isn't all-white; that'd probably raise some eyebrows and cause Natt to gnash his teeth some more. So who am I to judge?

Okay, who am I to judge in an excessively vocal manner?

Anyways, my assessment last night is indeed correct. Sure enough, Dio looks perfectly fine and good-natured as usual, with no sign that he was in the fetal position and practically bawling his eyes out several hours ago. So whatever happened was likely just a set of nightmares with no bearing during the actual period of activity. Even if it's something more, it looks like he has everything under control; so as long things don't spill into my own life, all is good.

In the meantime, we are given a few days to acclimate before the next couple weeks of orientation actually commence. Which makes me ask the following question:

"So, there a reason you're all dressed up?" Seriously, it's only a little bit past 0700, and he already looking like he's ready to tackle the day with some pep in his step. I, on the other hand, am not even bothering to roll out of bed as I stick my head from under the curtains.

"Well… I'm about to go have breakfast — you're welcome to join by the way; I can wait — and plan to follow that up with a stroll around the campus. I want to get a feel for the place before we actually have to go to our classes and activities; doing so may help in making it so that an expedient route is found. Stuff like that. If you have a better idea to spend the day, I'm game."

At the mention of finding an expedient route, my interest is piqued, and I actually do allow myself to tumble from my little den. "I was planning on sleeping till noon, but now that you mention it, I may take you up on your breakfast offer. And I, if you're up for it, I think I have something a bit more fun in mind than just walking around campus."

~oOo~

Once I mention my idea of a little race, Dio is extremely receptive. So after breakfast, we use the time that it takes for our stomachs to settle to plan it out.

The goal is simple: first one to the statue of the two crazies from Twelve — my roommate thinks I'm being disrespectful by calling them that, but last I checked it's what they are — wins. To top it off, there is no set course, and any path can be taken; the only caveat is that Panem General is a midpoint that we are required to pass within a block of. To top it off, as a point of this is to get an idea of how to easily traverse the city, we are to wear our regular daytime clothing instead of purely athletic gear.

"You up for that?"

"Why not? While the route seems a bit far, our clothes are made for high activity as well as staying within code. What about you?"

"I could say the same." I fact, my clothes are specifically made for the kind of activity I partake in, and I still look good in the process. "So you ready?"

"Whenever you are." To his credit, the kid — and I mean kid; he mentioned earlier that it's not even until next month that he turns eighteen, which would probably make him the youngest out of everybody and almost two years my junior — looks extremely excited for this. "By the way, what's with the gloves?" he asks as I put on a pair of fingerless gloves.

"Oh, they simply make everything a bit easier." Normally, I'd also be wearing my HUD glasses — one of the few things I could take with me from Central — especially since this is unfamiliar territory; however, despite the increased risk that it brings, I decided not to out of fairness. I don't think Dio has any idea what I'm planning. Though just to be on the safe side, I have checked ahead of time to make sure that there are no restricted spots that I may run into.

In due time, we are at the front of the residential tower with the avenue extending out in front of us. The avenue goes for about a couple hundred meters southwest before it hits a roundabout at the northwestern end of the campus. When also taking into account obstacles, the most direct ground route to the Boulevard of the Victors is at least two miles, which isn't bad, though there's still stuff like traffic.

Except… who said anything about me staying on the ground?

"Alright," I announce as we both get into a starting stance, "on the count of three. One. Two. Three!" SHIT! I knew that Dio looks athletic, but I didn't expect him to be this fast. I'm just barely able to keep on his tail and wondering a bit if he's going to burn himself out in a short amount of time.

No matter; I soon see the perfect building, take a hard left, and, before long, am scaling the cladding that makes up its facade. The moment I reach the rooftop, I take in the expanse before me and get into my element.

Like many spots in the Capitol, this area is made up of clean low-rise buildings. However, the important thing is that urban planning is done with space in mind; thus, barring the larger avenues and boulevards, there are minimal gaps between each of them. It's just what I need.

As I continue forward — running, leaping, climbing, sliding, and rolling in the process — the landscape almost seems to transform. Every rooftop is a roadway; every ledge, outcropping, or decal is something to find purchase; every street and alley is a surmountable hurdle; every footbridge is a… bridge. Anyways this may not be the walkways and skyscrapers of West City, nor is it the forests and karst formations of Central, but this neighborhood of the Capitol has challenges and thrills of its own… and I welcome them.

Even though it's only been a day so far, for the first time since I have arrived here, I truly feel alive.

The UP campus is more or less a collection of large academic halls crammed along a half-mile-long plaza; said plaza is trisected first by the student center then secondly by Cyrus Hall, which holds the administrative offices and main auditorium. Upon reaching the plaza, I begin running along an especially long academic hall and risk just enough attention to peer down at the ground. Turns out that I've managed to catch up to Dio, who's looking repeatedly over his shoulder. It may possibly due to me being close enough to the edge to be flagged in his field of vision, but for whatever reason, my roommate looks up towards my direction; that's when his jaw drops and he stumbles to land in a sprawling mess across the lawn. At least he didn't hit the concrete.

With the student center ahead, I decide to cross the plaza at this point. Fortunately, the center is connected to all surrounding buildings by a set of bridges. I manage to surprise the wits out of a group of Capitolites when I hit the nearest bridge and go into building, earning stares as I run towards the exit at the exact opposite side. Upon exiting, I continue on until I pass Cyrus Hall —that one required finding a footbridge across the open area going perpendicular to the plaza — and finally reach the hospital complex.

However, instead of going along the roundabout and following the main boulevard to Primrose Circle, I proceed to take a near ninety-degree turn away from it towards the southwest. As I get closer to the Boulevard of the Victors, the academic halls give way to residential mid-rises, making the trip an uphill one; this is just as well considering how the wall, which flanks the boulevard and serves as the base for the victors' statues, rises up at around fifty feet high. It's possible to simply go back down to ground level, enter in through one of many entrances, and run up the stands… but where's the fun in that?

In due time, I finally reach the wall and statue. In contrast to the other figures posed in action stances and brandishing some sort of weapon — well, Beetee is simply crouching and working with a wire, but I digress — Everdeen and Mellark stand tall with their weapons dangling at their sides and their hands clasped to be held aloft between them. There are some signs of damage on the two, but they are otherwise in excellent condition.

Anyways, even though there's just a narrow footpath serving as a gap, things are a bit tricky at this point since the surrounding buildings are way taller than the top of the wall, which rules out going from a rooftop. So, instead, I run along a set of balconies on a condo before taking the leap.

I should have factored in the wall itself.

It turns out that instead of being completely flat, the marble top of the wall is angled… and waxed. Of course I do manage to clear the gap and land on the surface right next to the statue's podium; however, I don't land completely on it but at the edge with the intention on pulling myself up. Instead, what ends up happening is that I begin to slip down, with my gloves giving me a marginal amount of traction and my attempt at pulling up actually causing me to slip further.

_Shitshitshit… did not think this through all the way. Alright, don't think about the hundred-plus-foot drop to the streets. You've been in stuff like this before; just take in your surroundings. Ah yes, there's a ledge right below; it's a bit narrow, but if you hug the wall enough you can probably get it. Else fails, there couple decals here and an outcropping th—AAAH!_

I can't help but issue a yelp of surprise as a strong grip clamps down on my wrist — I can vaguely hear a familiar voice yelling, "I got you!" — and then the collar of my shirt before proceeding to not just yank me up but practically toss me onto the podium.

I lay on my back to get my bearings straight and stare up at the sky, when Dio — the kid's wide-eyed and pale except for the grass stains smudged on his nose and forehead — blocks my vision. "Are you alright?"

I wave him off before sitting up. "I'm fine. No, really, I am." I'm not even trying to make light of the situation; I've actually been in even more harrowing situations before. "How'd you manage to get here?"

My roommate seems to take me in for a few minutes before he finally relaxes a bit. "Took a right after passing the hospital and ran through the side streets. Went through the nearest entrance and ran up here." I should have factored in the side streets, but I thought that navigating them would be too much of a hindrance. Before I can say anything to response, he taps the base of the sculpture. "So does this mean that I win?"

I don't know what it is about the question — maybe my nerves are just shot — but the next thing I know, I'm emanating a set of chuckles. Before long, both of us are overtaken with peals of laughter. Finally the laughter subsides and we simply spend the time lounging back and taking in the cityscape before us.

This kid may be a bit on the weird side, but I think I can get used to him.

"Yeah… you win."

~oOo~

We walk the leisurely route back to the dorm, stopping by the center to have lunch on the way.

As we settle on the couch, Dio asks, "So where did you learn to run like that?"

I'm still hesitant to mention anything Central-related, including the fact that the technique is standard training taught to all residents of the community as a method to locomotion when the need arises, to outsiders. So I make my statement as broad as possible: "The environment I grew up in was just conducive towards it."

"Do you think you could teach me sometime?"

Normally, I'm not the kind of person who gives lessons willy-nilly, but Dio looks so eager at the possibility that I'd feel like a dick for turning him down. Besides, the kid shows me that he already has good speed, strength, and stamina. "I'm not good at teaching, but do you think you learn through observation? If so, then why not."

"Thanks!" After a moment though, his expression becomes thoughtful. "If you don't mind me asking… what's your home like?"

"You mean what's West City like?"

My roommate looks a bit confused by my answer, though I can understand why. "Yeah. I mean, that's where you come from, right."

"You could say that." Probably don't need to confuse him anymore. "In any case, I don't mind describing that hellhole. What do you think of the skyscrapers here?"

My query is probably out of left field for him, but he still bites. "They're taller than anything I've ever imagined. Most of our buildings in Two have less than five stories."

"Well imagine a city that's comprised of almost nothing but skyscrapers that are as tall as any Capitol tower save the Games headquarters. Even our factories are built vertically. And imagine that those structures are just as densely built as any of the neighborhoods here. Except unlike the shiny buildings of the Capitol, the structures in West City are many times built haphazardly to the point of relying on each other though beams and reinforced walkways."

To emphasize the point, I take out my personal tablet to show Dio a couple shots of the city. At the sight of it, he whistles: "I could see why you'd consider running like that to be useful."

"Yep. It's one of the few things I like about the place. Though I will admit that things are beginning to get better, even if crime has gone up a bit after the Rebellion. Anyways," I state as I take my tablet back, "As you can see, this type of development tends to restrict light. So those of the upper class, mainly engineers and scientists, live on the upper level; factory workers and such tend to live in the lower level. Then there's the Mutt Food."

"Uh, Mutt Food?"

"The true dregs of society. Those who have nothing to contribute and can't find, or refuse to find, a niche. Even those who live in the lower levels view them with contempt." Before Dio can ask, I explain: "In Three, you are expected to find a role in society. If you aren't smart enough to be an engineer or scientist, there's factory work. Or you can take the support role as a merchant or the like. Or you can be in administrative. The point is that we don't care what kind of occupation a person is in so long as they have an occupation. A person who doesn't contribute is a millstone, a weak link. So they are cut loose."

Dio looks utterly mortified. "That… sounds horrible!"

 _Soft and sensitive…_  "Why? You said it yourself that demanding a handout is a sign of weakness. Why should the productive be burdened by the weak? Like I said, this isn't even a class thing, but an ideal that is upheld at all levels of Three's society. And before you ask, we do look after the involuntarily infirm, disabled, and elderly, but that's the role of their individual families."

"If you were all so confident that you found a niche, why was District Three one of the first to rebel?"

I can't help but sigh in exasperation. "Haven't you been listening to a thing I've been saying? Think about what the Capitol is. What work have they done to obtain the fruits of the districts' labor without giving something in return? They expected us to be altruists that simply gave things away to our own detriment. That made them the weakest link of all; the ultimate of parasites; the millstone to be cast off." Despite my reservations about the Rebellion, even I couldn't argue with that logic when it was presented to me.

"Your district's philosophy still sounds fairly heartless." Surprisingly, and despite his earnestness and clear disappointment, Dio doesn't sound angry in his rebuttal or laden with the same kind of judgmental nature the other kids have.

So instead of dismissing him outright, I simply shrug. "Not going to argue with that. However, if it makes you feel better, it's not like we are averse to compassion. If somebody wants to be compassionate," —  _like my folks…_  — "all the more power to them."

I'm expecting my roommate to belabor the point, but he instead pauses to mull the idea in his head before switching tracks a bit. "So what's with the term 'Mutt Food'?"

"Because once they die or are too weak to resist, they get eaten."

Now he really looks horrified and yelps, "What?"

"Don't feel too bad; if you met a group of Mutt Food, even you would probably find them unpleasant. Not to mention violent. But I digress." I begin to rummage under my bed to pull out an enclosure. "Anyways, to keep disease at bay when the people eventually expire, we have specialized mutts that roam the lower levels to clean things up." At that, I open the enclosure up to bring out the lizard; we are allowed a pet so long as it stays within a small cage or aquarium. At the sight of her, Dio scoots away a bit, and I smirk a bit at his reaction.

"Don't worry, they aren't aggressive or even that dangerous, and Belle here is a full-grown pygmy variant; the regular ones grow to be about nine feet long. Granted, they have a strong bite, but will only bite somebody actively provoking them. Come on, she won't attack you." Slowly but surely, Dio extends his hands out; without further ado, I simply drop Belle into his hands. To his credit, doesn't completely recoil, and finally curiosity overtakes his initial terror as the reptile curls around his arm to absorb the body heat. "The mutts are based off of varanids, though I think that there's some  _Corucia_  in there."

"Her scales are really pretty." He's probably talking about the patterning of scarlet on aquamarine.

"Thanks. Normally, the lizards are just brown and gray." As Dio continues handling Belle, I don't mention to him that our cleaner-mutts were most likely used as the template for the white lizards released in the sewers of the Capitol during the battle there. It wasn't even our main labs but the Capitol branch that made those creepy abominations. Yes, even we thought that they were creepy.

Finally, it comes time for me to put Belle back in her cage. "So I told you about Three. What's Two like?"

It's easy to miss, but I swear that I see Dio freeze for a second and try to figure out what to say. "It's… large."  _Wow, really descriptive there._  Fortunately, he realizes how lame that answer is. "I mean that you should see the mountains there; they are as great as the ones surrounding this city. And many buildings in our towns and cities, especially Martius City, are built out of the stone we quarry. Our buildings may not be as tall as the ones in the Capitol, but there is pride in them."

"Is Martius City — which I take is the administrative center — is where you lived?"

Again, that hesitation. "Yes. But I… spent a lot of time in the Aedes Bellonae."

"The what." I have seriously not heard that term before.

Dio seems oblivious to my confusion. "You should have seen it before the Rebellion. It was truly a marvel…"

When I still have a look of confusion on my face, my roommate brings out a booklet and flips through it; turns out that it's actually a sketchbook full of drawings.

"Are these yours? They're pretty good." Seriously, they are a bit on the abstract side, but that doesn't detract from the detail.

"Thanks," he murmurs absentmindedly. "I was told by most people that it was a waste of time, but my sister encouraged it. Here we are."

When he hands the sketchbook to me, I see a landscape imagine of the city. In the foreground is the square bordered by the station, a massive statue, and the palatial administrative hall; rebuilding of the last one is almost complete from what I hear. However, it's clear the focal point of the drawing is the mountain in the background.

Now know what Dio's talking about. I saw it on screen several years ago being sealed by a set of avalanches. At the time, Gale Hawthorne ranted proudly about justice and this being the way to win a Rebellion. At that moment, the guy came off as a bit loony — maybe it's a Twelve thing — though he was a lot calmer during the few times we've met. Granted, I'm fairly certain he doesn't likes me. "Ah, so this is the 'Nut'."

"Yeah, I forgot that the rebels called it that…" For some reason, Dio looks a bit pale.

"Hey, are… you alright?"

He just gives a small shaky laugh in response. "Just… exhausted that's all."

The kid's clearly a terrible liar, but I feel no need to push the issue. "Alright." I shrug as I hand the book back. "Well at least you managed to get out of there in time and didn't get caught in that nasty little riot. I heard the place was a mess afterwards."

Another shaky laugh. "Yeah…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HARDCORE PARKOUR!


	5. This Means War

Another restful nap of mine is rudely interrupted by bright light hitting my face and something landing on my chest to skitter towards my face. After a minute of adjustment and blearily blinking my eyes several times, I'm only able to take in a scarlet and aquamarine patterning before a pair of strong jaws clamps down on my nose.

"AAAAGH!"

I will state without shame that yeah I flailed a bit, but my ye— manly shouts of pain totally do not come out high pitched and incoherent. It takes several motions of flailing to get the lizard to let go, and I take a look around to see that my curtains have been partially drawn back with my roommate is peering at me from his bunk in an upside-down manner with a look of barely-suppressed amusement.  _Why, you little …_

"Cohen, you son of a bitch! The hell you thinking? You have any idea what the PSI of the bite strength those things have? I—…" The fact that Dio's staring at me, with astonishment seeming to take the place of his previous amusement, gives me pause and causes me to glower back. "Now what?"

"Your voice…"

That's when I feel the blood drain from my face.  _Oh hell no…_  "Wh-what's wrong with my voice?"

"I didn't say anything was wrong… It's just…" To my abject mortification, a wide grin begins to spreads on my roommate's face; that same type of wide grin that tells me that he's found something new and shiny to examine. "It's all… twangy!"

"No it ain't!" Even as I retort, I realize the error I'm making and attempt to regain control.

"Yes it is."

"No, it  _isn't_."

Dio frowns and tilts his head. "Well,  _now_  it isn't."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do..." The statement is drawn out in a sing-song manner that wears at my patience.

"Are you going to keep up with this all day?" I growl back.

"If you want." No sooner is that said when realization dawns on his face and — as if things couldn't get any worse, but of course they do — his expression softens to something resembling sympathy; I hate it. "You're  _ashamed_. What are you sca—"

"Fine!" I snap, releasing all control of my speech in the process. "You know what: fuck it all! Want to hear what I really sound like? Want to hear how most of us in Three speak? Well here it is: in all its 'crude and unsophisticated' glory! There, happy now?"

Weariness takes hold, causing me to drop my face into the pillow and burrow deeper into the covers. The whole time, I can feel the same sympathetic look burrowing into the back on my head, which makes me want to rip the expression off the kid's face by force. Sympathy is merely a dolled-up version of pity; I don't need or desire either, and it's definitely idiotic to receive it from Dio Cries-at-Night Cohen of all people.

"I think you sound better this way."

At Dio's softly-uttered statement, I flip back over to stare at him with no small amount of surprise — it's been almost a week since we got here, and he still seems to be full of surprises — and suspicion. "What."

"You sound better when you talk like that."

"First off: wipe that pity off your face before I wipe it off for you." Once he rapidly complies, I add, "Secondly: you're shitting me…"

He shakes his head earnestly in response. "There's an interesting rhythm to your voice and it makes you sound unique… in a cool way. Why do you hide it?"

"You just answered your own question."

"Huh?"

"How you reckon people here in the Capitol view an accent like this? Hell, how you reckon 'upper class' people in other districts view this manner of speech?"

"You never seemed to be the type of guy who cares about what other people think about you."

"I don't. What I  _do_  care about is what people view my folks." Dio's confused again, so I elaborate: "As bad as it may be, it's one thing to be a delinquent. If you watch the news, scandal is common among folks my age and social standing, and those stories are way more 'interesting' than a kid who simply likes to treat the scenery as his playground; funny how the media works.

"However, everybody goes crazy if they catch whiff that I talk like some 'uncouth nerd from the districts'. Sounding like this if I were a tribute… well then, that'd just be 'quaint'; sound like this if I'm the son of someone important… then I simply ain't raised right with 'proper' manners or education; doesn't matter that I'm just as literate, if not more, than my peers can ever hope to be. And you can bet that competitors in the districts will help fan the media attention.

"The point is that it would reflect badly on my folks, and there'd be tabloid stories questioning their parenting skills. Things like this have actually happened before with those of lower-standing, and the result was not pretty. I don't wish to be the cause of a repeat incident. Make sense?"

My roommate slowly nods. "Yeah, it makes sense. Though it's a shame…"

I scrutinize him a bit further to make sure he's not being facetious. However, in general, it's obvious that Dio is nothing but sincere — sometimes, aggravatingly so — and right now is no different. And it's not like he hides his heavy Twofer accent either, despite the fact it signifies his not-so-popular district. So I decide to take the gamble. "Well, it  _is_  a pain to be speaking like some floor manager from Six. So how does this sound: while I'll still speak in District Standard in public, I'll relax my speech when speaking with you. However, I trust you to warn me if I revert during public discourse. Fair enough?"

This time, his nod become eager, and he chirps, "Fair enough!"

"With that out of the way…" I take a hold of Belle, who until now was crawling under the sheets, and hold her out to Dio. "Care to explain?"

He just shrugs a bit. "Thought it be fun payback."

Dio's capable of payback? Now  _that's_  something new. "Huh. I reckon I locked her cage…"

"Oh you did. I just disassembled it." When I stare back at him, the grin reappears on his face. "Not bad for a 'meathead', huh?"

I can't contain my incredulity. " _That's_  what this is about?"

Yesterday, my desk chair was a bit faulty; the thing not only refused pivot correctly but also made the most annoying sound at the slightest movement. When I voiced my displeasure, Dio came over and asked if he could help. Since it would be a while till I could send the thing in, there was no harm in the kid messing with. What I did not expect for was him bringing out a bag of tools, looking up the furniture spec to be on the safe side, and proceeding to disassemble the entire chair before rebuilding it back up. That's when I also noticed that all those items on his desk weren't just abstract tabletop sculptures; they were various 3D puzzles of extreme complexity.

After he finished working, I tested the chair out to find out that the thing now worked perfectly without any squeaky noises. Just to test something out, I took one of the larger sculptures apart and asked him to reassemble it while I time; he got the job done in less than half-a-minute. Another puzzle, where colors had to be matched to corresponding sides, was finished in almost ten seconds. That's when I stated that it was "not bad for a meathead from Two", at which he pouted with a type of expression bearing great offense. I didn't think anything of it.

Guess I was wrong.

Part of this is downright ridiculous. I've seen this kid enduring death glares and sometimes blatant insults with a shrug. Not to mention my usual attitude — I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the most pleasant person to deal with — with his usual good nature. But apparently, calling him a meathead crosses a line.

However, I will admit that I'm quite impressed with his skill.

"Admit it: you're impressed."

Just not out loud. "I hate you."

For a moment there, he looks legitimately wounded — it actually starts to make me feel a bit bad — but that is quickly replaced with another look of realization followed by a wide grin. "No you don't."

All I do in response is glare back and growl, "Maybe… but don't think there won't be consequences."

Because this means war.

~oOo~

Swinging from bar to bar is a lesson I decide to start Dio with. In this case, we are underneath a nearby bridge spanning the canal near our dorms; bars, used for handing banners, line the sides of the structure all the way to the other end. The advantage with this location is that if something happens, he won't be having concrete as a cushion; yes, I made sure that the bars were low enough and that he's able to swim beforehand.

After explain the basic techniques and giving a demonstration of my own, I allow Dio to try things out for himself. I even give him his own gloves that he can use from here on.

So without any further ado, he makes the leap.

For his observational skills, the kid didn't seem to notice that I put a significant amount of oil on the palms of the gloves beforehand.

Good thing the Capitol keeps its waterways clean.

~oOo~

After a long day of orientation, I call first dibs to the shower.

It isn't until a couple minutes have passed that the water coming out of the top showerhead is currently pink.

After quickly jumping out and allowing the water to run its course, I'm able to get my skin scrubbed back to its normal color. My hair remains looking like it would put the plumage of our Quarter Quell birds to shame.

~oOo~

The rest of the week is just one big tit-for-tat measure, usually one action per day and of increasing complexity. Yeah it's petty, but I'll admit that there's a certain level of entertainment to be found in it.

When we're not figuring out new ways to compromise each other, we're attending the orientation seminars that are supposed to get us acclimated to campus life: random team-building bullshit, showing us the facilities and programs at our disposal, safety courses; usual stuff like that.

One afternoon, Dio actually heads out on his own for some kind of 'appointment'; he doesn't elaborate and I don't ask. I myself usually head out on my own when going around town as it usually involves finding a good place to get a drink; I actually once offered Dio some of the peach melomel the guys gave me as a gift, but he refused to drink anything until he became of age, the prude.

~oOo~

The afternoon before the day we start our first class — something about the history of the world before Panem — I put into action my latest retaliatory strike. While probably the flashiest prank to date, it's actually quite simple in execution.

So after transferring the information from my tablet to the main console, I simply sit and wait.

The moment Dio walks into the room, I turn the projector on to simulate a life-sized swarm of tracker jackers and nothing else. I've even included in the AI so that the swarm behavior is as realistic as possible.

While this is my more risky plans by virtue of the projections easily being recognized as such, the results don't disappoint.

My roommate immediately lets off a very shrill and undignified scream and tries to bolt. Apparently he forgot that there's a door right behind him, because he immediately slams right into it. Hard.

I also learn a new thing about the kid: it seems that he's capable of surpassing the pitch of a prepubescent Capitolite girl in the presence a pop singer.

~oOo~

It's the first day of class, and for some reason my alarm has refused to go off; I have little doubt as to who is responsible.

Fortunately, while I have awakened later than desired, missing breakfast in the process, I still have plenty of time to spare, so I go through the ropes of getting cleaned and prepped. Granted, the whole time, I'm on high alert for some kind of surprise awaiting me; however, nothing's amiss or out of place. It's only when I'm about to head out that I realize what's up:

My shoes are missing.

Fortunately, after several minutes of searching, I'm able to find them. Unfortunately, they are at the very top of a tell shelf; way taller than I'm able to reach by simply jumping straight up. Climbing them is also out of the question judging from the creaking noise made when I put just the slightest amount of pressure. Thing is, it's not like the kid took into account the easiest solution for me to utilize.

Except that he did.

The moment I attempt to move my chair over, it falls apart into its constituent pieces; the same goes for Dio's own chair. To compound issues, it's now ten till the start of class.

So, in the end, the only thing I can do is grab my bag and run to class as fast as possible… barefoot. All the while, cursing the name of my roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This immediately continues into the first chapter of the fic "Seeds of Panem". I also suggest reading the second chapter as the next chapter of this story will continue from there.
> 
> Jus en case yer were wonderin' what fehlers lahk Nayd's wool soun' lahk whiuhn they speak, this es a clers approximashun. Of kers fer obvis reasn's Ah ain't gonna raht it out hur.
> 
> Lots of nasal quality, drawling at certain points, and high-pitched stressors on syllables; that's not even getting into adding syllables. The reasoning for this is that the population of Three is mainly descended from those survivors who sought refuge in the caves of the Ozarks during the Great Cataclysm; besides those who already lived there, this would mainly include people from Missouri and Arkansas, plus bordering regions (western Tennessee and Kentucky, northern Mississippi, eastern Kansas and Oklahoma, and southern Illinois; plus a secondary surge from Louisiana in that pre-Panem period). Over a couple centuries of isolation would do the rest of the work, and the vocation of the district will have little bearing on how they speak. Granted, those in higher social strata in the two major cities are influenced by neighboring districts. 
> 
> Also, despite the movie, Katniss and Peeta (and other people from District Twelve) most likely speak close to this manner as well; granted, being victors and residents of Thirteen would likely wear things down a bit. Perhaps ironically, the Seam's influenced a bit by Northeastern (NYC, New England, Philly) accents while the merchants are closer to the original. 
> 
> District Standard's similar to Midwestern/Newscaster English, though in Ned's case there er probably still some elements that would be influencin' how thins sound. 
> 
> For Dio, his District Two accent makes him sound Latino. As in, think less “#-generation Latino-American” and more “citizen of an indistinct Latin American country speaking English as a second language (though fluently and with an American English grammar structure)”. Emphasis on "indistinct" because you can’t tie the accent to a single RL present-day nation (reasons ranging from pre-Cataclysm immigration {ironically, Middle Easterners played a bigger part in this than actual Latin Americans or Iberians} to trade interaction); granted, I suppose you can guess what region they would sound most similar to. What matters is that there are certain elements (stressed vowels, rolling “r”s, etc) that are more akin to Latin than Anglo nations.


	6. Guilt

"Alright," I growl, "we're going to have a nice long talk right now, and you're going to tell me what I want to know."

Everything had gone fine for the first week of class and looked like they were off to a good start. Then this week rolled around and our esteemed history professor had to compare Dio to his namesake — Diocletian was apparently a tyrant with a lovely habit of persecutions with a high body count — but not before confirming quite mockingly that the kid indeed had a Career/Peacekeeper background; even most of the district rubes were shocked by Suetonius' piss-poor manners, and Paylor ended up lambasting him afterwards. In the end, what matters is that whatever was said wrecked the kid to the point of him not usually bouncing back like he usually does; instead, he stayed as a listless mess all the way up through now, and I actually had to practically escort him all the way up to our dorm.

The moment we get inside and take off our shoes, I lock the door behind us, force my despondent roommate onto the sofa, and plop myself down onto my bed to face him.

"Why does it matter?" Dio mutters; the kid still has this dull lifeless quality to his voice, and he still seems to consider the floor a perfect subject to maintain eye contact with. "I thought the issues of other people weren't your problem."

_Huh, so he figured that out…_

"True," I concede as I strip down to my skivvies and make myself a nice blanket nest; this will probably take a while, so I might as well get comfortable. "But even I'm aware enough to recognize something's amiss to the point of it becoming my problem. Since we share a living space, I want to know that you ain't going to go all Mellark on me."

_And there may be a good chance that you care a bit about his well-be—_

_Nope._

"Is this reasonable enough?" At my query, he gives a small nod but still refuses to look up. "Good. In which case, I'm going to give you a little opportunity. Instead of starting off with you being interrogated by me, you have a chance to explain things on your own with minimal interruptions. Take as much time as you need."

As I lean against the wall, Dio makes no move nor does he say anything, which causes me to wonder if this whole let-him-speak-first idea was a good one. Actually, in all honesty, I don't even know what I'm doing right now. Even if this kid ends up spilling enough beans to make a good pot of chili, what am I supposed to do with the information? I'm no shrink, and I definitely know that comforting isn't something I excel at or strive to excel at for that matter.  _Hell, why am I doing this? What do I hope to accomplish? Am I trying to help him or just satisfying my curiosity… or both? Wait, why would I even be to trying to help?_

Almost an hour passes, and there's still no sign of activity from my roommate. I actually have to check a couple times to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep or expired, but he still looks conscious. After another half-hour, I'm now more than sure that this has become a complete waste of my time.

I'm mulling over the alternatives — either grilling him until there are mental scorch marks or letting the officials take care of this — to my original offer when he finally speaks:

"You know… when I got here, I seriously had this idea in my head that I could simply start anew. Leave my past behind and forge a new path for myself. Once that happened, maybe… just maybe… I would no longer be a failure." After a long exhale, the kid finally looks up at me; turns out that his eyes are as dull as his voice right now. "I was a fool."

I'm waiting for some kind of continued explanation or punchline, but he says nothing else. It's a bit… disappointing.  _Seriously, that's it? That's what's been bugging him?_  "So let me get this straight: just because Suetonius makes a snide little comment comparing you to a despot that lived who-knows-how-long-ago, you're a complete failure? I'm failing to connect the dots here."

"What's not to get? Professor Suetonius wasn't incorrect in anything he said—"

"He also said that everybody else had an equal chance of becoming a tyrant as well."

"But you can't say that he didn't have good reason to single me out as an example. The other students already made their point clear a long time ago. The professor only confirmed the reality of the situation."

I'm flabbergasted. "You… you seriously think those rubes are in the right?"

"Why shouldn't they be?"

"Uh… maybe because they are a bunch of bigots who think that anything not within their comfort zone is grounds for resentment or contempt." Seriously, it's not complicated.

"My people helped oppress them for at least seventy-five years. They watched as their friends and family were killed in bloodbaths or tracked down by Careers. Some of them look like they personally fought in a war with Peacekeepers… Peacekeepers who oppressed them and burned District Twelve to the ground! You can't say that they don't have good reason to be angry." He runs his hands through his hair. "Who knows… maybe if this Rebellion never happened, I'd be out there killing people as well."

"Okay, so maybe you had a bit of Career or Peacekeeper training—"

"Both."

Dio's little interruption throws me off track. "Wait… really? You ain't just talking general cadet training, but actual Peacekeeper drills  _on top_  of going through the Career system?" I exhale a long whistle at his nod of confirmation.

If the information told to me by Twofers — whether in Central or working for my folks — is correct, it was customary for all Peacekeepers or Careers to start out as cadets. In many aspects, cadets were all the same, especially regarding how bull along the lines of "honor through Capitol loyalty" was drilled into them; however, cadethood still took two forms. The vast majority solely trained to officially become part of the Peacekeeper ranks by their mid-teens. In contrast, the very few— about three hundred per age group — who got accepted into the Career program didn't bother with Peacekeeper training until after their last reaping eligibility; a common result being that Career-based Peacekeepers tended to be all brutality and no skill by their force's standards, though that kind of dumb muscle definitely had its use for the Capitol. Overall, there was no overlap between the two types; in fact, in Two's premier academy, there was plenty of friction between the Peacekeeper and Career cadets. 

So the idea that this kid had both a Peacekeeper and Career focus from the start is mind boggling and clearly not standard procedure.

"How does that happen?"

My question causes an unpleasant sound to bubble up, and it takes me a while to realize that he's chuckling. Honestly, it's creepy, especially when paired with his unblinking stare and brief brittle smile. "My mother was the Generalisimus."

Now  _that's_  something of note. Last I remember, besides being in charge of Two, that Head Peacekeeper also oversaw the Peacekeeper operations at the national level. All I could glean from her — she would visit Central every time a new set of Guardians arrived to bolster our population — was the fact that she made the Commandant look absolutely genial; I'm also pretty sure she hated us.

"And the thing is…" the kid mutters, "I tried… I really tried to become a good representative for my district. If I couldn't volunteer for the Games, then I could at least be a Peacekeeper to bring pride to my family and retain the honor of my district. I may have not cheered for the deaths of the other tributes, and I could never feel any contempt for the other districts, but I didn't think there was anything wrong with being a Career or Peacekeeper until after the Rebellion. It as much formed the foundation of our very identity as stone forms the foundation of the mountains. How can you not expect the other kids to hate that about me?"

I'm trying to formulate a response to that, but he continues to ramble on: "Except… I… I couldn't even do that right. I couldn't even muster up the ability to honor my district in any way, despite my parent's best efforts. I mean, yes the system we had was wrong, but you can't blame them for pushing for my improvement. In the end, I know that they meant well. I know that they valued me and were just doing what they thought was best. They had to have; otherwise they would have simply have given up. But despite all my mistakes, they never completely wrote me off but kept trying any method they could to make me better; I mean you have to respect that, right?" Once again, Dio doesn't let me answer. "But all I did was fail. As much as they tried — as much as  _I_  tried — I was too pathetic to reach the goals set in front of me or match their expectations. Even after my elder sister ran away I was still the failure of the family, especially compared to my younger sister. And do you know what the really sick thing is?"

"No,"  _and I'm not really sure that I want to know,_  "but I suspect that you're about to tell me."

"When I learned that my parents were dead, I felt nothing. I felt nothing at all. I wasn't happy that they died, but I didn't grieve or feel any sadness. But that's not even the best part." There's that damn chuckle again. "The best part is that I actually look up to the man responsible for their deaths; I consider him my hero— no, I consider him my big  _brother_. In fact, he was the one who endorsed my participation in this program.

"What kind of pathetic excuse for a son am I?" Several minutes seems to pass after that rhetorical statement before my roommate finally adds with an uncharacteristic amount of bitterness, "Well, did you get your explanation? What do you make of me now?"

I really don't feel like figuring out all of what Dio just said about his family. Honestly, the whole situation sounds so twisted that I don't even desire to untangle that mess. So I simply forget all of that and focus on what I consider to be the most important element.

"Lemme guess: you now expect me to be so appalled that I will now go off and treat you like the rest of the kids from the other districts. I other words: you expect me to treat you like shit."

"Why shouldn't you?"

"Maybe because you never personally did anything against me?"

"But—"

"You actually explained yourself well. Now if you are indeed quite finished, I do have just one very simple question:

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

From the look of his face, I'm sure that I already know the answer before he utters it: "No. In fact, I could never even pass any of the acclimation exercises we had at the Career Academy. Because of that, everybody else took to calling me the 'Wolf Pup'."

"'Wolf Pup'?"

"I was told that I had the eyes of a wolf, but as much strength and killer instinct as a newborn puppy. Cato — you may have remembered him from Katniss' and Peeta's Games — was the first one to coin the term and everybody el—"

I don't know what else my roommate says as I'm too busy being overcome with peals of laughter. The irony of that statement is too rich. Dio's… less amused. "Um… what's so funny?"

Once I've recovered enough to wipe away the tears, I try to explain without giving away too much of the punch-line: "Think about it: you got called a wolf in an insulting manner by Cato. Now what turned that tribute into a gibbering mess at the very end?"

Doesn't take long for the kid to figure things out; he's still not amused. "Why would you laugh about something like that? That's horrible what happened to him!"

I can't help but sigh and shake my head at his soft and squishy outlook on things. "If you don't get the humor now, I doubt having me explain it to you later will help things. In any case, those were some of the shoddiest mutts made in a while; if they were able to take him down…" I allow myself another chuckle. "But back to the subject at hand: so you grew up to embrace the values of everything that represented District Two. I still fail to see how that makes you a horrible person. It's clear that you now disapprove of the system that supported Snow's policies, you are trying to become a productive member of society, and above all else, you have been ridiculously kind to everybody you talk to.

"Before you give some rebuttal, I'd like to turn this around: do you think I'm a horrible person?"

I'm honestly surprised at the speed in which he answers: "No, I don't."

"Oh?"

By now, a good chunk of the dullness has left Dio — maybe forcing the kid to talk keeps him distracted — though it's mainly replaced with fidgeting. "I mean, sure, you seem to have some views that are a bit… callous. But I don't think it translates you to being horrible. At the very least, I think you are a much better person than the image you like to cultivate while in public."

I wonder if he has any idea how much that statement makes his self-assessment utterly ridiculous; probably not. In any case, I'm debating the merits of explaining my own background, but I suspect there will be no problems from this kid. Besides, it's a fair exchange: he tells me a story; I should reciprocate.

"Alright, you say that now, but have you ever wondered how I was able to simulate a tracker jacker swarm?"

A little frown of confusion appears on his face. "I thought you said that you tested those machi—"

"Yeah yeah yeah…" I dismiss his statement with a wave. "That's how I was able to put the image in. But where do you reckon I got the footage of the swarm itself from? On that note, haven't you ever wondered why I'm covered in more tattoos than even many Capitolites?" I gesture towards the markings covering my torso and arms, making sure to specifically point at the Chimera on my left pec.

"I… I'm sure you have your reasons…" By the way Dio's fidgeting increases, I'm sure he's starting to realize that there's about to be some uncomfortable information coming his way.

However, I simply nod in response and continue forward: "I did indeed. Anyways, seeing as you're from Two, I take it you have a general idea about what Central is."

I'm answered with a small jerky nod. "Back then, it was common for my mother to rant about about how that community got away with poisoning the minds of of District Two's youth. She called them an… uh…"

As the kid's speech sputters to a halt in conjunction with him flushing red — at the very least it seem he's forgotten to be morose — I motion him forward. "You can say it. Probably nothing I ain't heard before from Peacekeepers making pit-stops."

It doesn't take long for the implications of my offhanded comment to sink in, and Dio's eye's widen as a result. "You lived there?"

"From when I was twelve to just a few months after I turned seventeen," I note with a breezy wave while trying to keep the bitterness from creeping into my voice at that last part. "Anyways, go on with what you were about to say. I'm curious and want to see if it's original."

"Are… are you sure?" the kid asks. When I nod in return, he seems to take a few breaths before finally rambling out the statement without pause: "She called it a 'fortress of hillbilly freaks led by a treacherous hag who shows no loyalty to the Capitol'."

Nope, definitely not original, and I guess this confirms as to how jealous that Head Peacekeeper was of our level of awesome. "I'm touched…" I tartly note.

Dio grimaces as if he's just committed a heinous crime. "Sorry."

 _Of course_  my roommate would apologize for simply relaying some Snow-loving bitch's opinion. "You ain't the one to make it in the first place… or are you?" When he answers my query with a rapid shake of the head, I give a snort before stating, "But back to my original point. I think that instead of boring you with some long explanation, I'll simply demonstrate what my point is." Without further ado, I bring up the right file from my tablet and relay the information to the projector.

What's displayed is a simple, but spacious, room with various platforms and obstacles strewn throughout. Entering thid room are three people — a man and two women — side by side, and in front of them is a table lined with various weapons.

"Might as well explain who they are. The first two are Francis and Darla Woods, a couple who decided their favorite pastime would be hacking their way through workers in several textile mills before they were finally caught; conservative body count estimate's at around forty people. The other woman is Lorene Weston, who locked her own children in her cellar so that they could easily be peddled as a constant source of income; I don't need to tell you in what manner they were peddled."

"Wh-why are you telling me this?" Dio squeaks as his face goes parchment-white.

"Just in case you may decide to feel sorry for them."

"Wha—"

"Shh… The best part is coming up."

In due time, the door on the opposite side of the room opens up, and in strolls a mid-sized mustelid-based mammal. "Look familiar?" I ask.

Now my roommate's eyes are practically saucers at this point. "Quarter Quell… Peeta Mellark called it the 'beast'."

"I'm partial to the name 'Dewdrop' myself."

"But how di— wait… is… is that? No…  _no…_  it can't be…"

It's not hard to figure out what's reducing Dio into a stammering mess as he's putting two-and-two together. Because reviewing through a preliminary progress report is a boy in his mid-teens and without the scars, new eye, or streaks of white that I have today.

Before anything more can be said, younger-me announces the commencement of the demonstration, and Dewdrop doesn't not hesitate to spring into action. The scumbags are barely able to grab their weapons when she is upon them; they barely have a chance issue a set of screams.

Right on the heels of that are several more demonstrations: a clicking swarm of beetles — also utilized in the Quell, but no one went into that section — that strip their targets to the bone within minutes, a colorful perciform with spiny anterior fins that deliver a neurotoxin, a large elapid capable of shifting the pattern of its scales and being active in freezing winter climates…

Even now, I look fondly upon all my creations. Dio… seems to be less enthused.

Once I conclude my little presentation, I look at my roommate who's still completely pale, wide-eyed, and frozen in place.

"So," I chirp, "what do you think?"

It taked a while for him to regain the ability to talk: "You… you…"

 _What's with people not being able to finish a sentence within an hour?_ "Yes, I made mutts before the Rebellion, including ones used in the Hunger Games; I also made a couple mutts during the war, though they were never used. And yes, all of the ones that you saw are mine; well, the swarm was a joint-project with someone else, but I still did the important part of the work."

I proceed to explain to Dio, who still hasn't said anything coherant the whole way through, a bit more about Central than what he had probably heard before. I tell him how I ended up winning a slot there — my entry was a breed of bioluminescent darters, which are still sold as pets here in the Capitol and a steady source of income for me via the post-Rebellion royalties program — and worked on designing mutts during my stay. Oh, and I mention that he's never to use to the word "muttation" in my presence; they can be called anything else — mutts, splicers, hybrids, constructs, even abominations, etc; official term is "construct", though everybody says "mutt" — but never that Capitol-originated term as saying it one way is an utter misnomer and the other just sounds stupid.

I finally explain how, after Paylor came to power, the mutt program was downsized due to public perceptions of them. Since I was now considered to be a "minor" in a "controversial practice", I ended up out of a job, unlike the tenure researchers or peers in less "controversial" fields, and thus had to leave Central; there weren't even any slots available for me to enlist as a Guardian.

After I finish my little story, I see that Dio's still a bit catatonic, so I get straight to the point: "If someone were to ask me if I have any regrets about those mutts, many of which were in the Hunger Games, I would tell them 'No'. Don't get me wrong, it ain't like I wanted kids to die or anything; I just really liked making mutts. In fact, if Paylor were to suddenly announce the return of the Games, what I would say is: 'Can I have my job back?'

"But look at me now. Despite a background most decent people would consider to be monstrous, I'm a perfectly functional member of society, even whenever my disposition goes sour. And I'm quite sure that I have no tyrannical urges right now." I steeple my hands and rest my chin on them as I lean towards the kid. "In your case, you seem to think that your upbringing has turned you into some sort of monster, even though your kill count is zero and you have an aversion to the whole concept. I mean, you should have seen yourself; you looked utterly horrified at the fate of the test subjects, even though they were the scum of humanity. You have repeatedly shown this ridiculously soft and compassionate outlook towards almost everybody, even though it's clear most don't deserve any understanding. Yet you're still trying to convince me that you're the bad guy? What kind of insane logic is that? Sorry, but I still don't buy it.

"I know about terrible people and monsters; I'm one of them, and I say that with zero shame. I also know this: everything you demonstrate and state shows me that you're about as far from evil as anyone can be." When Dio decides that now is a good of a time as any to start looking back down at the floor, I release a huff of air and conclude my spiel: "Alright… I've had my say. Whether you take it or leave it is up to you. Either way, I'm done."

As I flop down on my belly and sprawl across the bed, I hear a soft murmur — soft and quiet enough that I can't discern what's said — and initially mistake it for ambient noise. But my curiosity is piqued.

"What's that now?" I ask while I stare at my roommate.

Several minutes pass before he finally looks back up at me. "You're not a bad person."

 _Huh…_  "Really?"

"I don't agree with a lot of the things you've done, but I'm still sure that you are a much better person than you like to think."

 _Well, this should be good._  I can feel a smirk forming on my face. "And what makes you say that? Give me one really good reason."

"You're still talking to me."

Just like that, my smirk slides away.  _I… what._  Every attempt to articulate a proper response comes out sounding like a cat choking on something.

I mean, how do you respond to that?

"YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Okay, yeah, it's a cheap shot, but at the moment I don't have a better rebuttal.

Dio, who looks like he's about ready to expand upon his prior statement, immediately flinches and breaks eye contact with me in another attempt to decrease his profile; though not without stammering out, "I-I'm sorry. I di—"

"NO! Stop that!" If anything, the fact that he thinks that he needs to apologize for just infuriates me further. "Why are you sorry? I didn't ask for apologies; just silence. So shut up! Shutupshutupshutup!"

Finally, the kid clamps his mouth shut, though the sad kicked-puppy look that I now associate with him is even more pronounced than ever. I take advantage of the peace and quiet to roll on my back and pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to figure everything out.

I'll admit that shutting him down like this is not something to be proud of, but it does give me time to mull things over. And after a while, despite extreme reservations, I finally come to a decision.

_I can't believe I'm about to do this…_

Before I can change my mind, I slide out from bed, cross the room, and plop myself down on the sofa. The action is enough to make my roommate look back up at me, at which I hold my arms straight out towards him.

The comedy gained from the expression on his face almost makes this worth it. "Ned, wha—"

"Studies have shown that a prolonged embrace is effective in reducing stress and such."

Even though it looks like he understands the intention now, Dio still seems a bit hesitant. "But why are—"

"Do you want the fucking hug or not?"

I don't have to ask twice—not that I would have. Before I can even register the action, Dio has his arms wrapped around me in a tight embrace that I'm sure isn't going to let up anytime soon; the only thing I can do is slowly close my own arms and give him a couple hesitant pats on the back. As the kid rests his chin on my shoulder, I begin to notice something else:

"Hey, kid?"

"Yeah?"

"Are-are you… crying?"

"… No?"  _Really confident answer…_

"Then why do I feel something wet dripping on my shoulder and running down my back."

I hear a slight sniffle. "My… uh… eyeballs are sweating."

"Well, you should get that checked out."

The body I'm being held against shudders with what I think is laughter. Before long though it becomes pretty obvious what that laughter transitions into.

_I'm definitely going to have to take a shower after this._

Don't really know how long we're like this, though the sobbing fortunately ceases in due time. After a while, I'm starting to feel stiff so I consider this a good time as ever to end this little exercise. "Alright, kid, hug time's over. You can let me go now." Nothing happens. "I said you can let me go. Dio?"

The only response I get is an even breathing that occasionally hitches into a soft snore.

_Oh, you have got to be kidding…_

Part of me doesn't want to wake the kid up, but I really need to get out of here. So the only thing I can do is wriggle out from under his grasp; turns out my concerns of waking him up are moot as he topples over on his side and still shows no signs of waking from his slumber. The problem with my attempt to escape is the fact that it occasionally just makes his grip become tighter; also, for some reason, I swear that I hear him mumble, "No, puppy; don't go… it's dangerous…"  _Well, this puppy is hungry and tired right now, not to mention liable to get crushed if you apply any more pressure._

I don't know how, but I'm finally able to extricate myself and quickly put a throw pillow in my place; the arms clamp down on it, and I try not imagine what would have happened if they closed on my neck.

After taking a shower, I end up heading out for dinner. It's only late afternoon, but screw it; I'm right now considering that dinnertime and pretty sure that I'm going to be sleeping not long after. However, instead of the usual student dining area, I head over to one of nicer establishments nearby. There, I get a nice hefty aged-steak sandwich and enough of Eleven's finest bourbon to render me more tipsy than usual before trundling back to the dorm. When I get back, I find that Dio's right where I left him, though he managed to curl his legs up so that at the very least his whole body is now resting on the sofa instead of bent at an awkward angle.

So after placing the take-out dish I ordered — just a hearty gratinéed soup with beef and caramelized onions — on a small table next to the kid, I grab the blanket from his bunk and drape it over him before calling it a night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The class session mentioned here is expanded upon in the second chapter of Seeds of Panem.


	7. Deaf Leading the Blind

"I want you and your little posse to leave Dio alone."

"Since when do I care what you want, Scarface?" As he mutters that retort, Natt doesn't even bother looking at me as he sends a dart flying towards the board; I'll admit that the former rebel actually has a fairly decent aim.

Barely a day has passed since my little talk with Dio, so I decided to nip another issue in the bud as early as possible. In any case, it's convenient that Natt's here in the common room when most of the other kids are either out or in their rooms. The only other person present is Danni, who watches us impassively; she actually dropped her grudge around a week ago and is currently indifferent towards both me and Dio, which suits me just fine.

Anyways, Natt's little moniker makes me snort a bit before remarking, "Real original,  _Burns_." My nickname causes the former rebel to clench his fists a bit and make the pink marks crisscrossing his hand and arms to be put in even against contrast against his dark skin.  _Seems somebody can't receive as much as they dish out._  "And I don't care that you don't care. All that matters is that your group no longer turn that ten-meter radius around you into one big hostile zone whenever Dio gets remotely close to it."

As he prepares to set loose another dart, Natt sneers, "Somebody's feeling protective over his boyfriend?"

"That's funny coming from the one dating a construction worker in District Town."

The dart goes wide, but no wider than Natt's eyes as he slowly turns to stare at me and whisper, "Who told you that?"

"Nobody told me anything. It's just a case of me being observational when going to that neighborhood for a drink or bite to eat." Seriously, the place may be a bit of a shithole, but it has some quality bars and dining establishments, especially for the price; just because I have the ability to splurge all the time doesn't mean I have the desire. "I explicitly remember you walking past me with your date whenever I have lunch outdoors at Reese's Café, so it's not my fault you don't notice."

Natt doesn't reply but appears to have a mixture of fear and anger playing on his face. That's when a grin forms on my own face as I finally put two-and-two together: "Ah… so I guess the whole thing's supposed to be a secret, huh?"

In the place of her cousin, Danni answers with a sigh and shake of her head: "I've told him repeatedly that it was inevitable somebody was going to find out, and that he might as well come clean. But nope, he's insistent that things stay under wraps and relies on the fact that his group doesn't wander outside of campus."

"Because he doesn't want them finding out that their de facto leader is the very thing they hate," I conclude before erupting into laughter. Natt doesn't seem to be as amused with the little situation; I don't care and decide to carry on with my assessment: "My, my, my… This is simply too rich." I know the Thirteener view on so-called aberrant individuals but was unaware that these Twelvers, Eleveners, and Sixers are that bad.

"Shut up," the former rebel growls, "or—"

"— or what?" I shoot back.

"Or you'll find out just how much your money is worth when I pound your ass."

"You'd know all about that wouldn't you?"

Danni immediately barks out a laugh that's quickly masked with a manufactured cough. In contrast, it takes her cousin a bit longer to realize what I'm implying in regards to his poor choice of phrasing, at which I can see his ears take on a shade of red.

"I'm warning you, Bannon…" he grits out through clenched teeth.

"I heard you the first time and still don't care. Thing is, as a fellow  _NonCon_ ," — I'll admit, those light-deprived basement-dwellers can be quite creative with their vernacular — "I don't know why you hang out with those idiots when it's clear that they would disown you as soon as they found out."

Instead of answering, all Natt does is stare at me, with much of his previous anger from earlier seeming to be forgotten. In response, I give an impatient sigh. "Oh don't look at me like that. I'm honestly surprised you haven't made the assumption earlier; some your 'friends' already did even though they were completely off-base as to their guess. Suffice to say," I add upon seeing the unspoken query, "I'm not the same as you. Actually all things considered, I'm surprised they haven't figured you out, which brings us back to my original point: why them?"

Again, Danni replies in the stead of her currently-fuming cousin: "When Natt's group formed, he was focused on gaining like-minded individuals to lead. In this case, most were those who grew up in deprivation or would possibly have trouble getting used to this new setting, so he wanted to create the group as so that everybody could support each other. He just didn't know at the time that every kid he gained had a similarly-negative view of his orientation. However, he still wants to be a leader and is trying to work with what he's got."

I'm stunned. All this time I thought the group just formed so that they could collectively rag on everything that didn't fit their worldview; now the truth seems to be that the former rebel merely wants to guide wayward children. "Huh…"

Natt at this moment decides to regain the ability to speak. "Now do you understand?"

"Yeah… I think I understand," I murmur while nodding. "I understand that you're an even bigger idiot than I thought."

He's about to retort, but I cut him off. "No seriously; do you have any idea how ridiculous that rationale is? I mean, I get the whole 'I want to be a leader' thing. However, the 'I don't want them finding out something that really doesn't need to be a secret' bit sort of negates the whole idea."

"You got a better idea?"

"Yep. Personally, I'd ditch those fools and let them fester. I'd never let myself be held back by such filth. Find new people to hang out with."

"That's not going to happen—"

"I suspected as much."

"— and it's funny that you're lecturing me about allowing oneself to be held back by others."

"If you think Dio's causing me to be held back, you truly don't know him at all. Which gets us back to my statement at the very beginning: tell your lackeys to back off with the hateful attitude from him."

"And if I don't?"

I'm sure what's about to happen next — as is Danni, considering the way she stiffens — so I steel myself before saying this next part: "Let's just say that your merry band of bigots will suddenly be in possession of… interesting information concerning their dear leader."

I'm not disappointed. It takes less than a second for that implication to sink into Natt's mind before he rushes me with his fist drawn back and an obvious intent to cause severe physical harm. However, the moment he starts moving, I'm also already in motion.

As the fist continues on its set trajectory towards my face, I grab its owner's wrist, sidestep, and utilize leverage in a way that puts his momentum firmly in my favor. The result is Natt flipping forward and landing flat on his back… hard. I don't give him time to recover from having the wind knocked out of him. Rather, I kneel down on his chest while keeping one of his arms pinned beneath his own body and the other one in my grasp. With my free hand, I quickly remove the flashlight secured to my waist before swinging it out and letting inertia do the rest.

Natt must be really familiar with collapsible batons; because as mine makes that lovely snapping sound as it reaches full length, the former rebel has an expression of primal fear flash in his eyes for a fleeting second before said fear transitions to a  _really_  pissed off state. However, at least he's not dumb enough to miss that I'm in an advantageous enough spot to bring that baton down the moment there's any wrong move; so he has to settle for stewing in place. Despite joining in heckling Natt earlier, Danni looks like she's ready to join the fray on her cousin's side; a glare from me is enough to give her pause… for now.

"You ain't the only one here with combat training, numb-nuts," I growl once I'm sure that the situation is now well under control. If anything, I've found that rebels tend to be woefully undertrained in CQC, which is a benefit for me in this case.

Since it's clear my previous persuasion skills went nowhere, I decide to spice things up a little: "You know what: I'd like to tell you a little story. There are two guys I know back home.

"One of them is probably one of the friendliest people you'll ever meet, not to mention extremely professional despite seeming to be an idiot a good chunk of the time. Shit, I wouldn't be surprised if he eventually earns the rank of Commandant, and I know it ain't gonna be through nepotism. If one of your buddies said anything against him, he'd probably just laugh it off and continue on his merry way; at the very most, he'd chide them for impolite language. He's ridiculously decent like that."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Natt grits out.

"Let me finish," I admonish lightly. "Now his fiancé one the other hand… heh, well he's something else. If he came across your group and one of them called him a NonCon, you know what would happen?

"For starters, he'd probably give  _you_  quite the ass-whoopin' for being such a fucking little pussy. Then after he doles out a set of tune-ups to the rest of your group for obvious reasons, I wouldn't put it past him to burn all their houses down — well, in the case of the Twelvers, it'd be a case of burning their houses down  _again_  — and make it look like an accident. He tends to be irrational like that." Okay, in all honesty, the whole burning-down-the-houses thing is unlikely to happen as the guy's still as law-abiding as can be; the ass-whoopin' on the other hand… "And the first guy I mentioned… his friendliness ends if you hurt anybody he cares about. In which case, he can become one of the deadliest people you'll ever meet.

"Oh yeah, and they occasionally come up here to the Capitol whenever on leave." I bare my teeth at the former rebel. "Now do you see what this has to do with anything?"

It's clear that the dots are being connected in Natt's mind and eventually he nods his head.

"Good." With that said, I get off him in a backwards roll and quickly maximize the distance between us — all while keeping the baton out — in case he tries to retaliate. "My demand still stands."

As Natt gets back up, only to plop himself down next to Danni on the sofa, he sends me another glare, though it's not as harsh as before. "Why are you so insistent on helping Cohen? Don't you realize how much pain people from his district caused the rest of the nation? I've watched my friends disemboweled for fun by Careers. I got these damn burns from Peacekeepers dropping bombs on a hospital full of civilians. Peacekeepers that lorded over my district and… did as they pleased. Yet now you are trying to play nice with them."

"Well, first off, you ain't the only one roughhoused or known people killed by Peacekeepers. Secondly, Dio — who, last I checked, never was in the Games nor was he cracking skulls around the districts — is quite aware of his district's legacy. And thirdly… what bearing does that all of that have on how you treat him today?

"Because all I've seen the kid do is try to move past said legacy and be as nice as possible to everybody he meets, even in the face of hostility; it's actually really quite pitiful how submissive he is. In fact, I want you to look me in the eye and give me one example where he has purposely given offense towards you." I give Natt several minutes to respond, and when he doesn't say anything I shake my head in disgust. "Just as I expected: nothing. But you reward his overtures by treating him like he's worse than the sludge found in the sewers. This is despite the fact that he'd be way more open to you than any of your lackeys ever will. In fact, do you know that the kicker is? The fool actually thinks you're right.

"Look, I ain't saying that you should be all chummy and shit with the kid; I doubt he'll try to approach you anymore anyways unless he really needs to. All I'm asking for is to get rid of the hateful glares, the audible side-muttering, and the blatant insults whenever he gets within proximity. Contrary to popular belief, it ain't hard to exhibit basic manners. And if you're truly serious about this whole leadership thing, I'm sure that those idiots will listen to anything you say and follow your lead.

"And above all, I would have reckoned you to follow the lead of your former teacher. Even after being a key rebel, I don't see her being all draconian on Two or the Exiles, nor do I see her bending to the will of the rabble calling for such things as the Games' being reinstated."

For some reason, the part about Paylor is what gets Natt's attention and he breathes, "How did you know all that?"

"I stuck behind as she got into an argument with Suetonius about how he treated Dio and whether we all should be coddled in the face of all that goes on around us."

For some reason, judging by the thoughtful expression on his fact, that last point seems to have gotten through to the former rebel. If I knew that invoking Paylor would have held his attention, I would've gone with that in the very beginning. Finally he murmurs, "Cohen really did seem to be ashamed of his background, didn't he…"

"Yes… he  _is_."

Another few minutes pass when he sighs, "I'm not going to promise anything, but I'll tell the others to lay off. Don't expect me to be friendly with Cohen either, but I'll at least try to be civil. Fair enough?"

 _That was easier than expected._  "Fair enough."

~oOo~

With that out of the way, I proceed to the next step.

_For somebody who's insistent that he doesn't care about Dio's wellbeing, and that the kid's nothing more than a roommate, you certainly are putting a lot of emphasis on making him feel better._

_Don't make this more than it is. Making sure that my roommate is no longer a pitiful sack of angst is merely something that gets rid of an annoyance._

_Uh huh… nice little rationalization you got there. However, there's also the possibility that maybe… just maybe… you might consider him a fr—_

_Nooope…_

Before little internal debate can be allowed to go any further, I barge into our room where Dio's at his desk and tinkering with one of his puzzle games.

"Hey," I bark, which causes him to jump and almost drop his puzzle. "Your birthday's this Monday, right?"

"Yeah?" Despite his hesitant tone, I swear that I see the kid perk up a bit at me mentioning his birthday.

I clap my hands together and point them at him. "Well I got the perfect idea to herald your entry into official adulthood."

Now he really looks hesitant; almost to the point of fear. "And that's?"

"Oh, nothing too major," I say as I stand right next to the kid and pat him on the top of the head; the soft hair makes it feel like I'm petting a puppy. "First, we're going to get you your first drink…

"Then we're going to get you laid."

It's sometimes quite amusing in seeing a delayed reaction in people. The kid's no different, and even though he's clearly steeling for discomfort, several seconds pass before realization about my statement sinks in.

And that's when things become really entertaining. 

"Wait, what?" 

"Well, getting your first official drink is pretty much a rite of passage when you come of age."

"I meant the second part."

"Oh, that. Well, coitus supposedly brings all sorts of happiness to a person. I mean, you  _are_  interested in girls, right? If not, my point still stands. And if no one, at least we still have the drinking."

"Your first guess was correct." By his quiet tone and frozen pose, this a conversation he'd rather not have.

"Thought as much. And I reckon you're a virgin…"

He now looks even more uncomfortable but still nods. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess. So what better way to herald your coming-of-age than through coitus?"

"A-and how is this going to happen?"

"Simple: we head out Sunday night, kick off your birthday with a toast, party a bit, and eventually end the night — technically very early morning — with you leaving with a girl; coitus should ensue. With no class on Monday, it ain't like there's a need to wake up early," I note. "So what do you say? Oh, and it's all on me so you won't have to pay a copper."

"R-really?" Dio looks up at me with wide, almost disbelieving, eyes.

"It's your birthday. Nothing to lose."

Minutes pass in silence, and I use the time to begin working on other stuff. Finally, the kid murmurs a soft, "Okay…"

"Hmm?"

"Okay. We'll go with your plan. But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"The way you phrased things, it almost sounds like only I'm going to be leaving with a date." The look on Dio's face is equal parts confusion and concern. "It seems kind of unfair to you."

Even though he clearly doesn't know better, I find the statement hilarious, which just increases the kid's level of confusion. As my laughter subsides, I chortle, "Don't worry about me."

"I don't get it."

"Let's just say coitus ain't exactly a priority of mine." Since his expression of confusion doesn't dissipate, I decide to go all analogous: "Some folks play for the same team, some for the opposite side, and others for both. Me? I ain't even in the arena."

Finally, comprehension appear to dawn. "So you mean that—"

"— I feel no sense of attraction based on hormonal biochemical-reactions in the presence of another person; no matter the gender, complexion, or body type. Which is just as well; just the idea of that sort of intimate bodily contact is appalling," I explain with a shudder. "But that doesn't mean that I can't be your wingman."

"Wingman?"

"Wingman. Buddy system. Courtship support, if you will. I'll help you scout out individuals, assist conversations along, and head-off unwanted company if need be."

"Oh. That sounds helpful." Suddenly that confused look reappears. "But if you're not interested in girls, how can you help scout them out?"

"Just because I ain't attracted to others, doesn't mean I can't recognize attractiveness when I see it."

"That doesn't make any sense…"

"Okay, think of it this way: are you attracted to guys?"

"No…"

"Then what do you think about Finnick Odair?" _Besides bits of him probably still in these sewers…_

The way the kid blushes tells me all that I need to know. "Exactly."

"I-I'm not comfortable with the direction this conversation's headed…"

"Okay, think about it another way: if you come across a well-made piece of art, you think it looks good, right?"

"Sure."

"But would you want to date it?"

"Uh… no."

"That's how I view a physically-attractive person; ah, I see you're getting it now. Anyways, I can also be on the lookout for other things such as personality and the like. In some cases, I may recognize somebody and can either point her out to you or warn you that she's bad news. Make sense?"

"Yeah it makes sense… and I'm thankful for your help. There's only a little problem."

"And that's."

"What do I… um… do?"

"Huh? Oh…  _Oh…_  You never got the… uh… talk?" I was hoping we didn't have to get into this. I got the talk when I was real young but have since forgotten it all.

"I didn't have time for it."  _Wow._

"Well, shit… Uh… here! I'll give you some info." I take my tablet and transfer some informative articles and guides to the kid's. "That should help." Though, when he takes a look at the info, a frown appears.

"I'm not sure—"

I huff a bit in exasperation. "Here's a human anatomy guide as well. Really, the principle should be the same."

"Uh… thanks then."

A few hours later though, he still has questions: "What about talking to them?"

"What do you mean talking to them? I already told you that I'll help get a conversation going and keep it running if need be."

"But that's the thing. You shouldn't be doing all the work. Also what about the emotional component to this?"

"I… ah, fuck." Why does this kid have to ask me the hard questions? And it's not like anybody else is going to help him. Unless… "Follow me."

In no time at all, we are out in the common room and in front of another dorm's doorway.

"Ned, I don't think we should bother other—"

Dio's fidgety plea is cut short with my sharp raps against the door. Almost immediately, it swings open to reveal a beaming RA.

"Ned! Dio! Good afternoon!" The weeks definitely have not dulled Delly's freakishly-sincere exuberance. On the upshot, she's pretty much been the only other peer to treat Dio in a decent and friendly manner; come to think of it, while she treats everyone in that way, there seems to be some familiarity in how she views the kid. But no matter. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Before my roommate can interject and say that this is all simply a mistake, I explain, "Well, Dio's eighteenth is coming up and I'm taking him out to celebrate accordingly. Part of that is hopefully going to involve him getting first date. And, well, I'm not exactly the best person to talk to about picking up a girl… so… someone needs to give him advice, and you were the first person that came to mind so—"

"I'd love to help! And since I;m not busy, we can start right now." With that, she takes Dio by the wrist and maneuvers him to one of the sofas while she seats herself on a cushy chair facing it.

I clap my hands together and chirp with a grin, "Excellent! In that case, since I have nothing to contribute, I'll leave you two alone. Let me know if you need anything." As I retreat back into my room, Dio gives me a pleading look of utmost terror. I ignore it and wave as I shut the door.

With that out of the way, I now have free time to relax in solitude.

~oOo~

"EDWEN BANNON!"

"AAH!" Hey, you can't blame me for being startled. When someone comes suddenly barging into a room with a voice as shrill as hers — she seriously sounds like a mouse about to be fed to one of my mutts — the atmosphere of the immediate environment tends to veer a bit into the hostile side. Unfortunately, Belle is cradled in my hands at the moment, and in my state of being, my fists reflexively clench. Suffice to say, she doesn't enjoy that and lets herself known via clamping down on my fingers. "AARGH!"

After barely managing to catch the lizard and putting her back in her cage, I turn to casually address the irate RA. "Can I help you?"

"Care to tell me what kind of 'information' you've been giving Dio in terms of making love?"

"Well…"

"Because I've raised goats back home and helped my best friend raise his pigs. Funnily enough," — her tone and expression seems to convey the idea that the situation at hand is anything but funny — "when I asked Dio about what he knew about sex, he gave me an explanation that sounds suspiciously like a step-by-step livestock breeding manual. Then, when I asked him where he got this idea, he told me to talk to you."

From the sounds of things, apparently my advice given isn't appreciated. "Uh… But the process is the same, ain't it? Extension A into Port B. We're all mammals, and actually I gave him diagrams about human anatomy to supplement the information. So it's just case of… you know…" — I make sure to gesticulate vaguely — "adapting to the circumstances. Right?"

"Wrong. It's much more complicated than that." Finally, she sighs and squeezes her eyes shut while pinching the bridge of her nose. "Okay, at least he recognized that emotional needs have to be met, and we still have time so I'll give the basic rundown of what and what not to do. In the end though, it will be up to him when he actually gets around to it; hopefully, whomever he hooks up with will help him along. The good thing is that he's actually a fast and earnest learner. He just needs to be a bit more confident when it comes time to put things into practice."

I can't help but snort at that. "Good luck with  _that_." When Delly gives me a withering glare, I raise my hands defensively. "What? It's the truth. The kid has barely enough self-confidence to keep himself together."

"Well, I think he has potential to improve."

"Of course he has potential; it's filling that potential that's the daunting part, and nobody else can do it for him. Anyways, is there any other reason you're he— and what are you doing going into our closet?"

"Dio gave me permission to look through here for a good combination for him to wear. It's nice that he's disciplined in how he dresses, but if he wants to get a girl, it'd probably help for him to look a bit more relaxed."

Another snort emanates from me. "Might as well stop while you're ahead."

"Oh, come on, it can't be that ba—… huh." I can see Delly frown and step back from my roommate's set of clothes.

As I sidle up next to the RA to look upon the source of her consternation, I mutter, "Freaky, ain't it."

Of course, Delly's not the type to use such wording. "It's… definitely well-organized." Talk about an understatement. Dio doesn't just categorize his clothes by — in this order — utility, climate, clothing type, hue, and lightness; he also makes sure that each wrinkleless article of clothing that hangs is evenly spaced from each other and each miscellaneous item is categorized accordingly as well. All that's missing are the labels. "At least I won't have any trouble looking though here."

However, after a few minutes of search, even she admits that the selection offered is a tad… lacking. "Where are you planning on taking him anyways?"

"Stygia." As Delly freezes at my casually-uttered location, I feel the need to add, "I have a membership there which allows me to sign on an extra person. So it's no issue."

"You're definitely not aiming low, are you," she murmurs.

"Why settle for less? Oh, and don't tell him; it's supposed to be a surprise." Granted, he's probably not familiar with the place anyways, but he could always look it up.

"Well, if you're probably going to be taking him to Tartarus," — she briefly pauses for confirmation from me; at which I give a nod — "then what we have here definitely won't do. In which case, do you have any plans tomorrow?"

I'm not sure where she's going with this. "Well, we have our Human Rights class in the morning. After that though, we should be free. Why?"

"Because we're going to go shopping."

 _Oh…_  "Welp," I chirp while turning and commencing a nice purposeful walk towards the door, "in which case, I hope you two have fun. Turns out that—"

A hand lands on my shoulder and firmly clasps it, effectively stopping my little attempt at escape; when I turn around, I see that Delly is giving me a wide grin and stare that could only be described as maniacal. "And of course, we'll need a second opinion on this. So come on…  _It. Will. Be. Fun_."

I totally do not gulp at her statement. "Hooray…"

~oOo~

Just as she promised, and to my significant chagrin, Delly is waiting for us when we get back from class. At the very least, since it was her idea, she agrees to pay for the stuff; also I have veto power, which is a plus. Dio just looks sheepish and acquiescent as he follows us in tow towards the Northern Boardwalk district.

While still relatively high-end, the Northern Boardwalk is way less expensive than its southern counterpart. The fact that the campus is nearby probably contributes to that. In general, this area tends to cater to families and younger demographics in terms of dining, shopping, and entertainment options.

After narrowing down the stores to just a couple, we begin our little foray. It usually goes like this: Delly picks some articles of clothing for Dio to try on; he obediently complies; I veto anything shown; we're back to square-one. Usually the clashes between me and Delly involve her idea that the clothing should be fairly "trendy" and help show him off; in contrast, I maintain the point of practicality and preservation of masculinity. It doesn't help that when we ask the kid for his input, all he does is ask for it to be comfortable as he doesn't have any experience in anything not assigned to him. After a while though, we fortunately do begin to narrow our options down and notice what works and what doesn't. A pair of jeans even almost passes the test until I see that it's over three silvers in cost; I may not be paying, but there's no way that jeans should be more than a silver.

After over two hours of browsing, choosing, and vetoing, we finally get what we need: a slim dark pair of jeans — though not practically spray-on like what many Capitolites like to wear; one of the few things Delly and I agree on — and a light blue sleeveless athletic shirt with orange highlights; the latter is something he can actually use when we go on our runs. Oh yeah, and we also make sure to get some protection for the kid; for that part, I adamantly insist on staying outside while the two browse in the "entertainment" shop.

On our way back, I do offer to buy something for Dio to wear over the shirt since Tartarus isn't the only place we'll be visiting; he'll need to look a bit spiffy the rest of the time. It doesn't take much browsing to land on something that feels adequately practical and Two-ish, while not being stuffy: a light and form-fitting belted jacket. Fortunately, there's no argument from Delly about my choice, and above all, the kid seems to like it.

~oOo~

The rest of the week, when we're not at class or studying, consists of Delly coaching Dio some more while I either nap or go out for a drink. Fortunately, it also looks that my little ultimatum to Natt paid off as the rest of his group is keeping civil in the kid's presence.

Before long though, Sunday rolls around. After spending a good chunk of the day resting, we head out a little before 1800. Delly makes sure to wish Dio good luck; in my case, she tells me not to force him to do anything stupid.

The train we catch is the same that we took to the Boardwalk earlier in the week. However, we stay on board as it keeps on heading west, with the rail gradually increasing in height in the process. By the time we reach to the northwestern foothills and turn southwest, glittering skyscrapers have given way to the stately residences of East and, after crossing a valley-spanning bridge, West Caelius. Even though District Town and the surrounding lower-class neighborhoods can be seen from here, the affluence of the suburb is retained due to the over-five-hundred feet of forested elevation separating it from the main city below; the rail line itself practically serves as a lower boundary of the community.

Upon reaching the end of West Caelius, we cross the Capitol Gate: a mile-plus-long bridge that effectively serves as a boundary between the main city and the western valley with its transportation and industrial sectors. By crossing that bridge, we enter into Esquilinus, which is even more affluent than Caelius and considered to be the wealthiest community in the nation, per capita; it's also where we need to get off unless we want to head down to southeastern end of the main city. Somehow, Esquilinus survived the war unscathed despite its status, and it shows. Where massive estates containing grand mansions set upon vast gardens aren't present, there are small shopping plazas selling the trendiest designer items and housing high-end restaurants. However, those spots aren't where we're headed.

After walking around a bit — I allow the kid to wander and gawks at the surroundings — we pass underneath an ornate archway and come across a just-as-ornate funicular. In comparison to the various means of transport around the city, the cable-operated tram seems almost like something you'd find in Twelve; however, it's actually quite reliable, and the furnishings shows that it belongs in this community despite the modest machinery. After I press a large brass button, the doors shut, the machinery comes to life, and the thing begins its rapid ascent up the slope and past various expensive neighborhoods. In just a couple minutes, the funicular slows to a stop near the top of the ridge — down below, the city is already a complex multicolored patchwork of light in the rapidly-darkening dusk — and we disembark to behold the vast and stately complex that's pretty much luxury and opulence exemplified.

I begin to stride forward, but it's not hard to notice that there's no additional sound of footsteps alongside or behind me. Granted, when I look back, I'm not exactly surprised to see that my roommate is stuck in his tracks and gaping stupidly at the location in front of him.

"Well, are you just going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to come on in?"

My query seems to successfully jolt Dio out of his initial state of shock and he hurries to join me at the main gate.

When the kid finally reaches me, I pat him on the back and state with a smirk, "Welcome to Stygia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "NonCon" is short for "Non-Contributing", and is a Thirteen-originated slur aimed at sexual minorities. Unlike today, in that district such rhetoric doesn't have a religious connotation— in fact, religion's viewed as "subversive" — but would rather stem from the sustainable population philosophy. Orientations not conductive to reproduction would thus be considered undermining the state and labeled a capital offense; gender-ambiguous children are also likely to be euthanized at birth.
> 
> Even after the punishments are outlawed, the bigotry would stay for a while. Why would some, though fortunately not most, in other districts hold similarly-hostile views? If it's not procreation-related, it'd be equating LGBT with the Capitol.
> 
> Probably not hard to figure out what Ned is.
> 
> Just because the Rebellion was successful doesn't mean that wealthy neighborhoods would cease to exist in the Capitol; granted, this assumes Coin's not the one running the show. Of course, the disproportionate-to-the-point-of-starving-districts excesses such as those banquets would be discontinued, and many Capitolites directly involved with Snow's governance likely lost their fortunes. But the wealth will still exist and now expands to the districts.


	8. Stygia

As I've been told, the complex that's currently known as Stygia was originally a mountain retreat built by Gallienus the Mad. Supposedly he didn't think the Presidential Mansion was fancy enough for him, so a palace was commissioned up in the hills to overlook the Capitol. It was already expansive when it was constructed under his reign and was supposedly made in the architectural style of the empire that this nation itself was modeled after; he even had pipes drilled deep into ground to create a hot spring to bathe in. Then the crazy tyrant went and got himself killed, and the Dark Days happened not too long after. Surprisingly, despite the districts' habit of getting all rapey-and-pillagey during their occupation, the place was not leveled to the ground; however, it indeed went into a state of neglect for the next quarter-century or so.

Then Agrippa came to power, and she decided to take up the location as her own retreat and a place to entertain guests. The complex was not just renovated, but expanded and completely overhauled, with styles from other civilizations being incorporated; granted the practice of constructing the entire place in fine marble and travertine — of course, barring up-to-date internal systems and such, as well as many accents — did not change. Upon the former president's retirement, the land and accompanying wealth was transferred to its caretaker, who then went and overhauled the retreat into the resort that it's known as today; supposedly, the theme of the place comes after an ancient version of the afterlife concept.

But I digress.

After passing under the Acheron gate, the two of us traverse the small square — most people are simply taken here directly by their private hovercraft — towards the complex of white stone and terra-cotta roofing. As we walk past the massive ornate bronze doors into the main vestibule, the young receptionist at her desk just finishes up putting on a coat of turquoise lipstick to beam in my general direction. "Welcome back, Mr. Bannon! It's good to see you again."

I make sure to grin back. "Always a pleasure, Charyl." The people working here are probably some of the few Capitolites I actually find to be agreeable and not merely tolerable; even though he's Capitol-born, a certain Corpsman doesn't count.

"The usual this evening?"

"Yes indeed, and," — Dio's unceremoniously pulled right up to the desk — "I'd like to add this guy here onto the roster as my guest."

"Excellent! Let's just log him into the system first. Now, if you'll please hand over a form of identification," she states while holding out a hand to the kid. After he gives her his ID card, she asks him the usual queries about possible allergies or dietary restrictions. In no time at all, he's in the system. "That should do it, Mr. Cohen. And I would like to offer an early congratulation on your birthday!"

Dio flushes a bit, but manages to murmur thanks. At that, I cut in with a clap on his shoulder to chirp, "That's why we're here today: celebrating this boy's transition to being a man." Though he's still a kid. "So it's fair that we start things off with him getting the Tribute Treatment." Yeah, yeah, I know; insensitive term… bad connotations… blah blah… but nobody has come up with a better term.

That doesn't assuage my roommate's concerns considering his widened eyes. "Wha—"

"That sounds like a marvelous idea!" trills Charyl. "And I must say that he's the perfect candidate for the process." I have to stifle a laugh at the way the kid blushes at the compliment. Before he can protest or anything, however, the receptionist makes a call to the prep team. In the meantime, I give her my communicator to install into the desk. Can't bring those in here, but they'll forward a call to me if need be

In due time, the prep team enters the room to descend upon Dio. To his credit, the fact that all three of them are speaking through bejeweled voice-synthesizing collars only surprises him for a second or two. Other than the family that runs this business, every single person working here is an Avox, with most of their roles corresponding to their pre-Avoxhood vocations; even the security here consists of Avoxed former Peacekeepers. If anything, one of the elements that differentiated the place from others in the Capitol was the fact that it practically bought the freedom for Avoxes and actually employed them with pay; granted, they didn't exactly leave the premises on their own devices at the time due to discriminatory practices on the part of the Capitolites. After the Rebellion, my folks were some of the main contributors to help the Avoxes; in their case, they helped to introduce and implement the collar and tongue prosthetics from Central pro bono.

Anyways, due to currently becoming the center of attention, Dio's probably too bemused at the moment to spare any thought to the state of the prep team fretting over him. Before he knows it, the kid's rushed towards the main entrance; he gives me one last pleading look, at which I simply give a wave and advisement to not resist. I myself get my room key and proceed on forward in the same direction that my currently-indisposed roommate was whisked off to.

After the vestibule, and past the covered bridge that passes over a narrow ravine, I pass into the atrium known as Erebus. The large space is a perfect square with a two-story structure — the second level of the structure, containing the offices, is supported by a colonnade of fluted columns — surrounding an open courtyard and serves as a hub to various points in the complex. To my left is Elysium, which we'll eventually be going; to the right is Asphodel, which contains the residences for the owners and workers, as well as a tunnel leading to the non-climate-controlled valley; straight in front is Lethe Thermae, which is my first destination. Passing by the bubbling fountain in the middle of the courtyard, I go through the large doorway to enter the apodyterium.

In general, the apodyterium serves as a transition section towards the rest of the spa and, like the atrium, contains a courtyard even though its compluvium is covered with glass. Also, instead of being colonnaded on the first level, things are flipped. The first floor, which contains the service and locker rooms, juts out a bit to double as a column-lined walkway for the second floor which has the private rooms. In my case, I get to have the latter.

The room is small and cozy with a small bed, barber chair, shower-plus-bath, dresser, toilet, and storage cabinet. Really, it's not a spot to linger about, but rather to get ready. There are also a couple larger rooms for couples as well as fully-furnished prep-rooms, one of which is probably where Dio's currently residing.

Upon getting in the room, I undress, hang my clothes outside my dresser, store my valuables in the provided safe, and take a quick shower before putting on a towel and calling one of the attendants. After getting a quick haircut and making small-talk — as he leaves, the attendant takes my clothes with him to get them cleaned — I take another shower and dress myself in the provided shendyt; the kilt-like garment serves as a modesty device — there are even weights at the hem to keep it from lifting up when submerged — while being practical and comfortable in this setting.

From the apodyterium, I enter through the warm humid air that typifies the tepidarium, which is the largest room in the thermae. Glittering mosaics cover the floor and the vaulted ceiling, while large pools filled with mineral-laden water are arranged by varying temperatures. Waterfalls that cascade down the wall help to add an atmosphere of dynamism and double as a shower when needed. However, at the moment, the only purpose of the tepidarium is to serve as a transition point to the caldarium.

Steam laden with the scent of ylang-ylang, sandalwood, eucalyptus, and tree resin billows up to greet me as the doors are opened. The caldarium is a large circular room accented with quartz tiling and topped with a dome covered in tiny windows to give the impression of a shimmering star-filled sky. Along the walls are ornate fountains set into niches at even intervals, and in the middle of the room is a raised platform of smooth heated marble.

After almost half-an-hour of relaxing on the platform, and allowing myself to practically be cooked, a burly attendant comes into the caldarium with a cleaning kit and proceeds to turn me into a ball of dough. What follows is a mixture of rinsing and soaking under a fountain, lathering with herbal soap, massaging complete with having my back and joints cracked, and a thorough exfoliation… followed by some more rinsing. All in all, it feels pretty good.

There are actually plenty of advanced treatments here in the Capitol, many of which have come from advancements made in Medical: chemical baths, blood scrubbing, remote stimulus, etc… Sometimes though, even I have to admit that low-tech techniques are sometimes the best.

Convinced that I've been kneaded enough to turn my muscular tissue into jelly and scrubbed enough to have several layers of skin removed — she even takes the time to file down the calluses on my hands — the attendant takes her leave to allow me to soak up the heat some more and rinse myself off one last time before exiting for the tepidarium. Barely do my toes touch the surface of the hot pool when the air pumps kick on to turn the water into a roiling mass, and barely do I get settled in when the help sets next to me a tray holding a platter of fruits and pitcher full of date juice with a hint of rose water. That just leaves me to pour myself a glass, lean back, and relax at my own leisure.

Sure, money may not be able to buy happiness… but it does make the transaction go a lot smoother. Granted, in this case, my family has earned enough influence with this establishment that we don't have to pay a copper.

_It's good to be a Bannon…_

An inelegant splash heralds the fact that I now have company in the pool. And surprise, surprise… when I open my eyes and turn my head to the side a bit, I behold a sheepish and slightly pink Dio fidgeting — more than usual — next to me as his giggling prep team takes their leave… at least for the moment.

"Look who decided to join…" I grab one of the fruits to hand out to him. "Fig?"

The kid looks warily at the teardrop-shaped synconium before finally taking it and muttering, "Insanity…"

"Don't be ridiculous," I snort. "I know you Twofers love your bathhouses."  

"This is different! I've been plucked all over and skinned alive… several times. Though," he confides while running his hand across his chin a couple times, "I don't think I've felt my face so smooth in a while."

"Probably because most of its follicles have been shut down. Convenient, ain't it?" My roommate actually looks more bemused and horrified than thankful, so I assuage his concerns: "Though if you so desire down the road, you can restimulate growth. Though I don't see why you would; it's quite nice to not worry about shaving."

"… Okay, you may have a point there," he concedes as he grabs a glass and pours a drink for himself.

"Of course I do. I wouldn't be me if I weren't always right."

Dio, dare I say it, actually snorts at my statement. However, he suddenly becomes serious and sighs, "Why are you doing this?"

His query causes me to just shrug and say, "It pays to look as presentable as possible so—"

"I'm not just talking about the treatment I'm getting right now. I mean…" — he gesticulates wildly — "this whole thing we've been doing this past week and you taking me out here. Why?"

 _Great, now he decides to have this conversation…_  Even in this relaxing setting, I'm attempting to keep my irritation in check. "Already told you before; it's your birthday. You should celebrate."

"But still… why are you wasting your time wi—"

Me slamming my glass down onto the tray is enough to silence Dio before he goes into another pathetic spiral of self-loathing. "Listen here, boy," I growl as I glare at the kid; right now, I really don't care that I've reactivated kicked-puppy mode in him. "I'm going to say this once, and I ain't going to repeat myself:

"You. Ain't. A. Waste. Of. My. Time." Each syllable is punctuated with me jabbing him in the sternum with my index finger. "I don't know where you get these idiotic notions, and, honestly, I don't really care. All that matters is that anything I do, I do because I choose to do so. And guess what? I'm enjoying myself right now. If there was no benefit to me, there's no way I'd even bring the subject up in the first place.

"So don't  _ever_  tell me that you're wasting my time. Okay?"

"O-okay." The way the kid quickly nods would be hilarious if it weren't so pitiful.

Never mind; it's still hilarious.

Satisfied that I nipped that issue in the bud, I settle back down. "Good. Now just relax and enjoy yourself."

Probably at least fifteen minutes of blissful silence passes — during which time we simply unwind and empty the contents of the refreshment tray — when, out of nowhere, Dio softly murmurs, "Thank you…"

When I turn to face him, I see that he's looking at me with a small smile on his face and, indeed, an expression of extreme gratitude. Fortunately, help is on the way to diffuse this situation before it progresses to maximum awkwardness. "Don't thank me yet." I smirk as I look over his shoulder and nod towards the prep team coming our way.

When Dio follows my line of sight to see them, his smile drops away and is replaced with an expression of sheer mortification-bordering-on-terror. However, before my roommate can do anything like flee to the center of the pool, the team practically drags him out to be frogmarched back to the prep room.

Leaving me to chuckle as I finish off the last fig and transition into one of the cooler pools.

"Don't thank me yet…"

~oOo~

After getting done swimming around the last pool, which is chilled almost as much as the springs back home, I head back to my room to take a shower and get dressed. As usual, the clothes that await me have not only been cleaned and de-wrinkled, but also held over smoking agarwood for a while. With everything set, I make sure to drop a couple bronzes each for all of the attendants in the gratuity receptacle — there's a console that helps me to sort and direct them to the right people — before heading out.

And lo and behold, it looks like my roommate's finished as well as he's waiting in the courtyard; though judging by the way he's still being babied by the prep team, he just got there. When I met up with the group, the team starts gushing about how Dio's such a perfect and polite client — I swear that one of them almost says "tribute", which amuses me greatly — to work with; the whole time, the kid's looking more embarrassed by the minute but still doesn't say anything.

The preps definitely have done a good job in cleaning the kid up. I mean, it's not like he didn't have excellent-to-the-point-of-ridiculous — it take him half-an-hour to get done taking a shower — hygiene and grooming standards in the first place; just that tribute treatments tend to have very noticeable impact. They also gave him a haircut, though it's not anywhere's as close-cropped as he used to be, and styled in a way that minimizes his inherent uptightness. He's even wearing his clothes in a fairly relaxed manner. Though…

"What… is  _that_?" I make sure to point at the offending garment wrapped loosely around the kid's neck.

One of the preps decides chimes in: "With what he has on already, we thought he'd look so dashing with a bandana. It's on the house." He fans himself to trill, "The girls are going to be all over you, darling."

I'm about to say something about how it makes Dio look utterly ridiculous, but the kid cuts me off: "Well, I like it." He actually sounds fairly confident and seems to be giving a look that dares me to reply in the negative.  _Well then…_

If Dio didn't win over the preps before, he definitely has now judging by the way they squeal in delight — I still don't know how the vocalization tech is able to get all those ranges in volume, inflection, and pitch; when I asked Joe, the prick just acted all smug about how a bio guy like me wouldn't understand — and say that he's welcome here anytime.

"Anyways…" I gesture vaguely towards the group. "You all done with him?"

"Not just yet," another of the preps pipes as she guides my roommate towards the parquet-surfaced lowboy talking up one quarter — the other three quarters being cushioned seating — of the courtyard's fountain. She pulls out a drawer to reveal a set of ornate crystal bottles containing various perfumes from One, Europa, and Sabaea.

After going through several sets, they finally settle on one that has prominent notes of citrus peel, lavender, jasmine, vanilla, cloves, olbinum, and ambergris. After they apply a reasonable amount on the kid, I decide to have a dab on each wrist; I'm normally not one for fragrances and don't need to impress anybody, but why not indulge? As the preps depart, I make sure to tip them each as well.

"So…" I state as I head towards the side exit with Dio following close behind, "are you serious about liking that neckerchief masquerading as a scarf? Or were you just being polite?"

He tugs a bit at the cloth to adjust it. "I actually like it. You know… I do have my own opinions as to whether I look good or not in something."

"Could have fooled me…"

"What's that?"

"I said I could have anything to eat."

"Oh… Me too. All that treatment has gotten me famished. So is this a good place for dinner?"

Once we take a left and reach the end of the art-filled hall, the doors open in front of us to allow passage. "Why don't you see for yourself?"

Elysium is best described as a long peristyle. White columns support a narrow roof that shelters most of the dining area, while leaving the interior space open to the sky, and serves as a boundary for three sides of the perimeter; the other side bordered and overlooked by Erebus. While much of the outer perimeter are bordered with buildings of the complex, the rest is give views past the columns to the surrounding landscape. The geometric theme is shown again in the orderly layout of the interior garden that is set with various flora and water features; some of the pools even have glowing fishes of my design. The most recent addition, and rising directly opposite from us, is a hundred-meter tall polychromatic stone clock tower paneled with reliefs depicting the history of Panem from its founding all the way up to the Mockingjay Rebellion.

All in all, I can't disagree with the idea of it representing some sort of paradise. 

We've barely in when a lady comes out to greet us with her typical effervescent demeanor.

"Ah, I heard you were here. And that you brought company."

"Well this place keeps bringing me back, Mrs. Borealis," I reply with a grin before slapping Dio on the shoulder. "And since Dio here's soon to become an adult, I thought we'd celebrate with style. Dio, meet Demeter Borealis: the owner and founder of this fine establishment."

"Ma'am," Dio states as he inclines his head slightly and lightly shakes Demeter's outstretched hand.

The kid make a positive impression here as well, causing the matronly proprietor to immediately rest a hand on her own chest and sigh, "My my… such a gentleman…" However, her approving attitude doesn't last as she turns to me with a frown. "You aren't taking this boy down to that dreadful place, are you?"

I just give her an empathetic shrug in response. "Don't care for Tartarus any more than you. However, Elysium isn't exactly the best venue for this kid to get a date, which is the intention. Sometimes you just need to slum it."

Demeter still clucks her tongue in disapproval. "I don't know why my daughter has to cater to those rowdy cretins. Oh well… I guess there needs to be a niche for everything, and the revenue helps."

"To be fair, they do put on some pretty good shows down there. But," I add to placate her, "there's no better place to hang out than up here. And the food is delicious as always." Serious, it really is.

That's enough to put our hostess back in good humor. "Speaking of which, is there anything specific you boys would like."

"I'll leave that up to you, as usual. We'll be at my usual spot."

I sometimes think that there are some time-and-space-bending techniques the staff utilizes here. Because as soon as we get to our table, the utensils and flatware has already been set, and there's a steaming pot of tea — personally I prefer tea iced, but as this mint-infused concoction is also sugar-saturated, it will do — and a bowl of marinated olives waiting for us. That's quickly followed up, while we're taking our seat, with a basket of buttered and grilled slices of bread presented with a bowl of baked and honeyed ricotta.

After I get done thanking the attendant, I notice that Dio's grinning widely at me. It makes me kind of suspicious and I scowl back at him. "What?"

The kid's unfazed. "I just notice that you've been nice to all of the employees." He pauses a bit with a thoughtful expression but continues on before I can say anything: "Actually, now that I think about it — barring some cases where they blatantly aggravated you — anywhere we've gone to buy or eat something, you've always been kind. It's a change from how you usually are towards people."

I think that over a bit while I pile cheese and olives on top of a piece of bread. "'Kind' may be a bit generous of a term. But anyways, unless they suck at their job, you should always be good to the help. And if possible, you should always reward excellent service." It's something my folks drilled into me at an early age, and I don't see any reason to change that outlook. "Doesn't matter what income level you are; if someone is servicing you, you should show your gratitude.

"Besides, it's something purely practical to do, especially if you're a returning patron and they prepare your food."

"That makes sense. I still think it's good."

"Yeah yeah… just go back to enjoying the sights."

Dio does as he's told, with no small amount of enthusiasm. The advantage of coming fairly late on a Sunday is that there are not that many people here — maybe a couple ambassadors and politicians, a CEO, and older actor or two — which allows us to get the best spot at the far corner of the colonnade. From here, we are presented with the shining city sprawling down below — at this angle, we can even see the Presidential Mansion — and casting ambient light on the white-capped mountains which take up the horizon; besides the traffic bustling on the road, slow-moving lights across a flat indigo surface denote the many recreational boats puttering along. The choice of furniture allows us to enjoy the setting all the more, as a narrow low-slung table sits between two heavily-cushioned coaches wide enough to comfortably serve as a bed; the setup is quite conductive towards simply reclining while picking from the various small plates provided.

And quite a few plates are provided: cheese-stuffed baby squid battered and deep-fried; chorizo croquettes with a crunchy breaded exterior and richly spiced interior; puffed turnovers filled with minced veal and various vegetables; sautéed mantis shrimp infused with garlic; buttered tomato pasta tossed with parsley and truffle; artichoke hearts drizzled with olive oil and wrapped in paper-thin cold-cured ham; crisp roasted partridge stuffed with couscous and glazed with apricot… The best part is that, somehow, the amount is just right that we're capable of finishing it all to the point of satisfaction without feeling stuffed. Just as well as there's always dessert — caramelized custard spiced with orange zest and cinnamon, as well as some assorted berries to top it off — and drinks.

We finish right on time as well, as the clock is a couple minutes to striking midnight. So after downing a shot of almond liqueur as a digestif and dropping some coins to the table — Dio's about to do so, but I invoke the birthday veto — I lead the kid just a short walk to the middle of the colonnade still at the end of the peristyle. Attendants are already there to affix us with bracelets to identify us as patrons to this establishment, and one takes Dio's jacket for safekeeping, before they call up the elevator; the doors opening up from the floor heralds the arrival of the ornate glass box that we embark upon. As the elevator begins its descent, the clock tower chimes and I congratulate the kid on reaching his eighteenth.

Right underneath Elysium is the brightly-lit room containing the large pool of Phlegethon. It's a daytime spot to relax and just swim around in. The pool itself, in terms of surface dimensions, corresponds with the garden above and has the environment of a tropical reef, complete with myriad colorful sea life. In fact, as we pass the floor, we go along an alcove set in the exterior wall of the structure holding up the complex. On one side of us is the Capitol, and on the other side is a tall narrow window looking into Phlegethon; Dio can't seem to make up his mind between looking at the colorful fish or the just-as-colorful city below. He doesn't have much time to choose as we pass through another short tunnel. For some reason, the kid blinks and shakes his head a couple times as we go through it.

"You alright?" I ask.

"Yeah… it's… just a lot to take… in… Whoah…"

Even before he finishes his sentence, I know the reason behind the hesitation. Because as we exit the tunnel, twin pyres flanking the elevator herald our arrival into Tartarus: probably  _the_  premier nightclub in the nation.

The main hall of the venue is a massive high-ceilinged space that serves as the lower level continuation of the footprint of Elysium's last hundred meters. The ceiling itself — flanked and held up by thick pillars decorated with colorful reliefs and topped with lotus-shaped capitals — angles steeply inward and is highlighted with a large twenty-five-by-fifty-meter window that also doubles as part of the floor to Phlegethon. Besides being able to see the shimmering surface and fish swimming around from here, the window casts down diffused and dynamic bluish light to accent the darkened room and contrast against the fiery torches set on each column; light not produced by fire or water is in the form of spotlights, strobes, and lasers emanating from various alcoves set throughout the hall. On the far wall, is a large mural of a winged goat-headed hermaphrodite with another torch going right over its horns; I've been told that there's really no meaning behind it and that it's just to set the mood.

On that subject: "Behold the idle rich…" Even as I say that, my lip curls in contempt.

The main space of the hall is thirty meters wide. The first twenty five meters from the mural-decorated wall is the stage where musicians and such perform… and with that other fifty meters as the floor where a writhing mass of humanity pulses to the beat. Represented here is a good chunk of my high-profile peers: pop singers, fortune heirs, actors, athletes, groupies of all the former, miscellaneous rich kids who are probably going to skip school tomorrow, etc… they typify the vapid "elite" that actually thrive on trends, publicity, and scandals.

All in all, I'm glad the place has its own dedicated ground-level entrances — the area directly outside is another shopping and entertainment district of Esquilinus — instead of allowing this rabble contaminating the rest of Stygia to get here.

But it's not like we're here to indulge in intelligent company anyways.

"By the way, you're going to want these on:" I hold out a pair of noise-equalizing ear buds; after Dio takes them, I apply my own in. In a place like this, ear protection is paramount; helps that these allow normal conversations to be heard and are unobtrusive. Even with the buds on, and while inside the elevator, I still can hear the music and feel it thrumming in my chest cavity.

The elevator glides to a halt and we disembark to head straight for the most important place here: the bar. Which is just as well as the elevator stops right behind this vaunted booze shrine currently inhabited by the person most capable of utilizing it to its full potential.

Persephone is probably the best bartender in the Capitol and undisputed queen of mixology. Seriously, you can throw any sort of combo at her, and she'll make it taste good. The best part is that she only focuses on the best stuff — Elysium's bar is better stocked, but this one's still pretty good — even when catering to the hordes infesting this den. Fortunately, she bartends up in Elysium for most of the day until late night; then she comes down here to run the show.

As the two of us approach the bar — fortunately, people don't tend to linger here, so two chairs are available — Persephone doesn't even bother looking up from muddling some mint to say, "Word from upstairs tells me that you brought some birthday boy with you." Something else I appreciate about her as opposed to most of this city: she cuts straight to the point.

"Yep. Where else would we go to celebrate his transition to adulthood?"

"Fair enough. Well, I just need to take care of a couple of these first, and then I'll get right to you." What follows is an array of juggling acts with the bottles of drinks and shakers. Frankly, it's all unnecessary, but the people here like flashy stuff.

In the meantime, I watch the crowd before us. The nice thing is that the crowd floor is set in a basin a couple meters deep, so there's not only no worries about spillover, but it also gives an unobstructed view of the stage from here; the few times I do come for a concert, I always stay at the bar. Right now though, it's just a DJ set up, so most the attention is on the revelers instead. A fog formed by body heat and moisture visibly rises up from the dancing, raving, and grinding mass, which just confirms my desire to stay away; doubly so when I think about all the perspiration forming — many of these people actually put on a substance that makes them produce multicolored and fluorescent sweat — on those writhing bodies.

Finally it's our turn, and it only takes a couple questions from Persephone to get an idea as to what to make for Dio and, by extension, me. Fortunately, in our case, she not only dispenses with the theatrics but brings out some of the good stuff from under the counter to begin her work. Starting by using some bitters to torch and caramelize a peach with raw sugar and candied ginger, she muddles the mixture together with some infused syrups, various spices, and who-knows-what before adding some gin, apertif, and ice to shake together and serve neat in stemware.

She doesn't disappoint. The result is sweet — almost a bit cloying for my own preferences, even though it's still good; granted it's being tailored for a guy who's just getting his first drink — yet still wonderfully complex with spiced notes. It actually tastes like I'm drinking a homemade peach cobbler. And it looks like the kid's enjoying it as well. So at least we got that part successfully out of the way.

Getting a girl is a bit more challenging.

Okay, it's quite a bit more challenging.

Actually, I feel like strangling the kid.

The thing is, he'd get a slew of girls interested in him in the beginning; there's practically a line forming. And I'm a man of my word in terms of keeping the conversation flowing or weeding out the one who I know are obviously bad news. However, once it becomes clear that it's an actual relationship that Dio wants, he becomes about as desirable as a fetus inflicted with cyclopia. For most of these people, the concept of a committed relationship is something they are practically allergic to, especially to someone from a different class level.

In general, my inebriation progressively increases as this debacle unfolds until I finally ask him, "Just one question: did you enjoy the rest of the night?"

The kid actually looks completely sober. "It was a bit different, but it was fun. The food and drink is good, and I'll probably come here to get a haircut from now on."

"Well… let's count that as a net gain. It's obvious we ain't going nowhere with this; so why don't you just go out and dance or something. Enjoy yourself. If you still want to get a date, we'll try someplace else."

There's no denying the disappointment showing in his face, though there also seems to be an equal measure of relief. "Alright. Sor—"

"Don't you even fucking think about apologizing," I growl. "Ain't nothing to apologize for. Now go on; we'll be headed out in half-an-hour."

To my surprise, the kid actually decides to venture onto the floor below and, after a few minutes of acclimating, is enjoying himself. It's short-lived.

A heated and argumentative voice tears me away from my latest drink and back to the floor. Once I find the source, I almost groan in frustration; however, I find that frustration laced with anger. Dio's currently looks like he's ready to run and hide, but being the doormat he is, is deciding on the action of just hunkering down in the hopes that the aggressor will eventually leave him alone. However that doesn't look like it's going to happen judging by the way said aggressor's voice is getting louder; judging by the accent and foreign words intermixed, this tourist is likely from Terra Rio del Sul.

Tourism here has been a big thing these past couple years, Other than the Capitol itself, the cottage industries of One and canyons of Five are popular destinations from what I'm told; there's even talk in Three about having sight-seeing excursions into Central's forests. In general, most tourists that come to Panem aren't actually that bad, and more importantly, they bring money. However, the kind that frequent Tartarus tend not to be as pleasant.

The moment Dio starts getting shoved, I feel my hackles rising. Persephone must catch my intent as she simply says, "Just remember the rules, Ned."

I nod. "'Don't throw the first punch.' Got it." Without further ado, I run up to the railings, open the gate, and jump down to the ground — there's actually a ladder there, but this method's faster — to approach the altercation.

"Something the matter?"

My query causes the tourist to glare at me. The idiot just exudes excessive machismo, and I wonder if he's compensating for something. "Stay out. This is just between me and this  _boiola_  here." He follows that up by shoving Dio, who's just trying to decrease his profile, again. That's when I notice the emblem on said tourist's shirt.

_Oh great… a soccer player._

"Well considering that the kid you're antagonizing is my roommate, you're making it very hard to stay out,  _babaca_." Hey, so I like to look up foreign cuss words. Who doesn't?

Throwing the fucker's language back in his face gets his attention. "He cut into my game. How is any man supposed to pick up girls when boys keep interrupting him? Children need to know their place."

That statement actually causes Dio to pipe up: "It was obvious that the girl didn't want to be talked to. But you just kept on pressing the issue." Dare I say it, he actually sounds like he has some backbone at this moment.

"So? They're just playing hard to get. You press enough, and sooner or later, you'll get through."

"Or maybe you should just leave them alone."

Dio's very obvious statement just serves to further rile up the tourist, who gets right in the kid's face. "Do you know who I am?"

"A rich idiot with no day job other than knocking a ball around," I cut in. "Kid, get back up to the bar. I'll handle this."

"But—"

"Bar.  _Now._ " This time, Dio complies and goes up the ladder.

The tourist is about to follow Dio, but I step right in his path and give the signal for the gate to be shut. Probably a dumb idea as he's just as big as my roommate and doesn't look pleased at my intervention. "You should have stayed out."

I ignore the implied threat and say in a voice that can only be heard between the two of us. "Do you have any idea who  _I_  am? No? Well let's just say that if I wanted to, I could have your precious team bought up as a nice little asset; you, of course, won't be included." While walking back towards the bar, I add, "Anyways, we're already planning on leaving now. So you do whatever you want; I don't care. Just stay away from the kid."

Probably being one to always desire the last word, the tourist calls after me: "Yes, run back to your boyfriend, meniño."

I know I shouldn't be goaded, but there's something about that foreign word that makes me halt in my steps and turn slowly around with narrowed eyes. "What did you call me?"

Knowing that he's got my attention, the tourist sneers in my direction. "Meniño," he repeats. "Because that's what you are: just a  _little_  boy trying to act big. I'm surprised they even let you in."

"It's funny you calling me 'little'." Despite the probable stupidity of such action, I find myself standing just a foot away from him. "I mean, anybody with a brain knows what happens when you take too many anabolic steroids—"

The last word barely has a chance to leave my mouth as I find my head knocked back and my body hitting the ground hard. I have to blink a couple times as I push myself up to a sitting position and ignore the taste of iron filling my mouth. When I look up, I see that the surrounding crowd's now completely stopped dancing and focused on the events at hand. Also, the fucker's looming over me with a very unpleasant look on his face, and his voice comes out low and threatening:

"Vôce vas se arrependir de dezir iso, cuzaũ."

As I spit an wipe some excess blood off my lips, I can't help but bare my teeth and chuckle, "I've had Mutt Food hit harder than that."

My statement confuses the tourist at first, but that's replaced with an expression displaying an obvious intent to cause physical harm. In that case, I begin to reach for my baton.

_Welp, let's get this over with…_

However, before the idiot can grab my collar, somebody else intervenes with a punch of his own and sends said idiot to flying back. Unlike what I got, this punch definitely look like it did some damage judging by the way my would-be-repeat-attacker tries to get back up but falls back down with a dazed look. One of the tourist's posse looks like he's about to attack the interventionist but actually stops, with an obvious freaked-out expression, and backtracks to focus on helping his likely-concussed buddy out from the dance floor. When I turn round and look straight up at whoever intervened, my jaw drops.

It's Dio.

Except this isn't the friendly doormat-of-a-roommate who I'm used to. Rather, the kid's standing in an primal stance that seems to dare anybody to get closer, and his body heaves with slow even pants that come out as a series of low growls. The only other movement are the muscles twitching all over his torso, especially along his arm all the way down to his clenched fists, one of which is bloodied. But most apparent transformation is in his face: from the clenched jaws removing any sign of compassion from his face, to the way the pupils in his hardened eyes have been reduced to pinpricks…

Honestly, all of the Careers in the past Games look like declawed kittens compared to the way the kid is right now.

"Uh…" I state as I stand back up, "he's my proxy." In this venue, there's a no-fight rule, and anybody who breaks that rule is booted out. However, for those who are members, we have the option of defensive retaliation — within reason of course — before the offenders can be removed from the premises. The option of proxy is there for those who can't fight.

In any case, right after my statement's made, Dio's little threat display vanishes and he now looks completely horrified. I ignore that and guide him towards the bar — people make sure to give us a wide berth now — to give a celebratory toast for exhibiting such awesomeness.

Things sort of become hazy from that point on.

~oOo~

Strong arms cradle my body as I surface slightly from the haze, and it dimly occurs to me that we're in motion.

I don't remember the last time Pa carried me like this. I never fell asleep in bed when I was young; so when I'd be too tired to walk back, he'd just pick me up and carry me to my bedroom to be tucked in.

Those were good times, and the memory makes me curl up a bit and nestle against his chest for maximum comfort.

Then I realize that I'm not actually being carried by my pa. Instead it's someone much younger, taller, and from a different district. And then the memories of the night begin trickling back, including bits and pieces of the trip back up to Elysium. While I don't remember at which point I became unable to walk, I don't recall or smell any sign of vomiting, which is always good.

Anyways, the realization that the kid's carrying me causes an emanation of squirming and protests for him to let me go. However, the protests come out garbled, and the feeble attempts at squirming take a lot out of me. The whole time, the only thing my roommate does as he continues walking is to softly say, "It's alright."

So I finally give up and settle for getting comfortable. It dimly occurs to me that we actually have company — female from the sound of the conversation occurring; there actually seems to be something familiar about her voice, but I'm too tired to place it — and instead of going into the funicular, we enter into some sort of vehicle. However, even as he takes a seat, Dio still cradles me in his arms; any attempt to get him to set me aside is shrugged off as he keeps a tight grip on my semi-conscious form.

As I nuzzle closer and curl back into a ball, the haze turns into darkness, and the last thing I register is the kid responding to a query as to why he's so intent on looking after me:

"Because he's my friend…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I gone a bit overboard with all the description porn? Probably. Do I have any regrets? Nope.  
> Also, Ned can name everything due to being informed beforehand.
> 
> Practically every architectural element of Stygia is based from various Mediterranean civilizations, and not just from classical antiquity, including several notable landmarks. See if you can identify them.
> 
> In the wake of Paylor's ascent, one product of lowered isolationism and a need for revenue would be tourism. Though for now, it's probably only for the rich.
> 
> If "Terra Rio del Sul", or the various words uttered by the bully, sounds slightly abnormal, that's because it is. With that in mind, it should probably not be hard to figure out what region it's located in. And yes, even in the future, pro athletes are complete prima donnas.


	9. When Life Gives You Lemons

When I regain consciousness, I find myself lying in bed with my shirt and shoes off. Also, said consciousness decides to bring some buddies with it: headache and stomach pain. However, I quickly stifle myself from emitting a groan of discomfort as, over the music emitted from my player, muffled voices can be heard outside the curtains. Due to my state of being, it takes me a while to get my bearings straight until I realize that the voices belong to Dio and an unfamiliar female. Though it's a bit strange they are talking this early at around 0230.

That's when everything from earlier comes back to me: Dio's birthday, his absolute failure at getting a date, the little confrontation and the fact my roommate is actually capable of growing a backbone, and a schmammered me being carried away from Elysium. Oh and the fact that he now has this girl he's talking to.

_Ah, so I guess you aren't so hopeless after all, kid. Beating up somebody must heighten the sex appeal. When in doubt, physical violence against similarly-or-larger-sized potential competitors is a sign of virility and health among many species when courting; considering the intelligence level of most of Tartarus' patrons, that element of Courtship 101 is probably right up their alley._

Still, there's something gratingly familiar about the owner of that sultry voice. However, the residual fog is preventing my mind from figuring anything out, and it's not I'm going to suddenly poke my head out of the curtains to introduce myself. This is the birthday boy's night — technically morning — so interrupting it is not an option.

Besides, I may possibly get some juicy info about either person from this conversation.

No, I don't have any shame.

Unfortunately, the majority of the conversation must have taken place while I was out as, right when I banish just enough of the haze from my mind to follow what's being said, I hear the following words:

"Well, this is fun. But I take it that talking's not all you want."

Dio's gulp in response is actually audible from here, and when he finally finds his voice, this comes out: "N-no—I mean yes! I mean whateveryoulike! Justtalking'sfinewhywouldyouthinkotherwise? Idon'twantotimposeoranything. I…"

 _I_  have to suppress the urge to facepalm in frustration at the kid's complete failure to articulate. Even a guy like me can tell what this girl would like right now; she wants the D… o.

Fortunately, my roommate's silenced as his awkward rambling's smothered and replaced with a slight muffled moan. It takes me a while to register that said smothering is due to a kiss. The kid's actually getting kissed!

After the kiss ends, the only thing I hear from Dio is a small, "Huh…"

The girl's voice is tinged with amusement when she purrs, "My, my, my… you  _are_  an innocent one. How about I do the piloting from here? You just follow my directions, and I'll make it worth your while."

"O-okay…"

Well, at least he found someone cooperative.  _In which case, I guess I can just go back to sleep and let the kid have his fu— oh…_

_Oh… fuck._

Suddenly, the full realization of where they are, where I am, and the fact that this is a one-room dorm, hits me like a train at full speed. Actually, compared to this, I'd probably prefer the train.

Yes, the goal of this night was to get the kid laid. However, I assumed that he'd either go to the girl's house or I'd just wait in the common room till they got done with the coitus. I wasn't planning on being the third party to this pseudo-mating ritual. Still, despite my better judgment, the fact that I made that stupid promise keeps me from telling the couple to get another room and possibly killing the mood for them.

Granted, right now, they are just kissing and things aren't that serious yet… I think. It's very high-intensity kissing from the sounds of it. Then there is some moaning at random intervals intermixed with directions to— _whoah! Okay then, so not just kissing… but still probably not coitus in itself. Maybe they'll just end it right here; after all, it's already pretty la—_

That's when I hear the very suspicious sound of a belt being unfastened and jeans being unzipped.

Fortunately, Dio, who sounds like he just resurfaced after being underwater for a while, has the sense to stop and ask, "Wait, what about Ned?"

I can hear a bit of frustration from the girl. "What about him?"

"Aren't you concerned that he's in the same room as us? Also, he probably wouldn't be very comfortable with something like this happening next to him."  _No, he wouldn't._

"If your roommate was awake and uncomfortable, he probably would have stopped us by now. And if he's awake and doesn't mind… well, I have nothing to hide."  _Why you little…_

"That makes sense."  _Shit._

"I knew you'd agree. Now," — her voice drops a couple octaves — "if you're ready for this next part—"

"Wait!"

"Now what?" This time, she's not bothering hiding her frustration.

"We shouldn't do it here on the couch. Ned would kill me if we did it on someplace he sits on." In all reality, I wouldn't kill the kid; I just wouldn't sit on the couch anymore unless we got new upholstery after burning the old one. Still, I have a healthy dose of appreciation for him having that kind of foresight and thoughtfulness.

Except…

"Well do you have a better place?"

_Oh no…_

"You mind getting in bed? I'll help you up."

_No. No. Nonononono…_

"I thought you'd never ask. Let's get you out of this first."

_NOOO!_

This time, as they get off the couch, it's clear that the two are removing all their clothes and simply dropping them to the ground. I use that time to look for my headphones till I realize that I keep them on my desk… which is outside.  _Dammit…_ So I instead opt to carefully raise the volume in increments under the hope that the music will drown the… stuff out. Even though I know that it won't.

"So what do you think?" This time, the note of amusement and no small amount of sensuality is back in the girl's speech.

"I uh… um… I… you're very pretty…" Despite the escalating levels of FUBAR in this unfolding situation, I can't help but chalk the kid's statement down as another facepalm-worthy moment.

Either way, it elicits a small giggle. "Thanks. Now let  _me_  get a good look at you…" Judging from the small whimper Dio makes, the girl's observation is not eyes-only. It doesn't help that it's obvious that they're now standing right next to my bed and brushing up against the curtains; I'm definitely going to be sending those to be cleaned later today. When the girl speaks again, her low tones are almost inaudible. "You're not so bad yourself."

"Lemme… lemme get something first," Dio stammers as the sound of rummaging through clothes is heard.

"By all means… take your sweet time." For whatever reason, she's sounding very appreciative. When the sound of rummaging ceases, she adds, "Oh, and thoughtful as well."

"I was told that I should always have one of these on hand."

"Do you know how to put it on?"

"Uh… sort of?"

"Don't worry. I'll help you. Now—EEE!" Whatever she was going to say next is replaced with a squeal and giggle of surprise that now emanates from the creaking mattress above me. Right as a secondary heftier weight settles onto the bed, the girl states, "Looks like those muscles of yours aren't just for show. Now let's see what else you can do with them."

To my increasing mortification, the very… wet sound of the making-out actually intensifies even more than what I heard from the couch; probably for about a couple. Then, after Dio's asked if he's ready and he stammers in the affirmative, I hear a small packet being ripped open.

And that's when the horror truly begins.

I don't know what's worse: the way the entire bunk would shake and creak at either an almost-metronomic or extremely erratic rhythm, the very… detailed instructions from the girl, the constant stream of apologies from the kid, or the… noises being emanated by both of them. I swear that it's as if the girl's ovaries are having an atomic reaction that could power all of Panem; at this point, I don't think there's anyone on this floor that's not aware that coitus is ensuing right now.

And the only thing I can do wrap a pillow around my head and chomp down on my blanket while silently cursing the day I thought of getting the kid laid, as well as the day I chose to be on the bottom bunk. Seriously, almost ten minutes have passed and they're  _still_  at this? As the pace — not to mention the accompanying noises — gets even more frantic, I curl up into a ball, squeeze my eyes shut, and attempt to banish everything away with my mind.

_Make it stop. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!_

Why I don't scream it out-loud, I have no clue. I'm honestly surprised I've retained this amount of self control.

Mercifully, however, the rocking of the bunk slows to a stop, and soon the only thing I hear is exhausted panting.

_Is… is it over?_

The girl recovers first. "Well, that was fun." From the way she speaks, it's almost as if she wasn't doing anything strenuous just a minute earlier.

"You're leaving already?" To his credit, while the fatigue's definitely there, Dio seems to be holding up on his own as well.

"I have things to do tomorrow—well, today. So I need to get home soon anyways." By now, she's already off the bunk and picking her stuff up to get at least somewhat dressed. "But, like I said, it was fun. You're a fast learner."

"Thanks. So… would you like to meet up again sometime?" The hesitant hopefulness in his voice is almost pitiful. "Dinner or something?"

"Of course, that's what I told you in the very beginning didn't I? Let contact info right here, okay?" As the door opens, she adds, "See you later."

"Goodnight."

After waiting for a minute or two after the door shuts, I decide to make myself heard: "So… did you enjoy yourself?"

The kid's yelp of surprise and dismay almost makes up for the past half-hour of sheer agony he put me through. "Ned! I didn't know you were awake. When—"

"I woke up right before it was apparently decided that talking ain't the only thing you'd to be doing."

"Oh… so…" — the fear and embarrassment in his voice is palpable to my increasing amusement; at least I'd be amused if I weren't feeling so cranky right now — "y-you heard—"

"—everything. I. Heard. And felt. Everything."

"… Ned, I sor—"

"Don't."

"Why—"

"I told you in the beginning that the goal was to get you laid. Again, I'm a man of my word. Otherwise, I would have stopped you then and there. But I didn't. And it was my own damn fault for getting so wasted that I passed out; by the way, I appreciate you carrying me back here.

"Thus, you have nothing to be… sorry for." Also, due to the recent frequency of its use, all that word does when uttered by him is get my mind going into the worst kind of tangent; all I want to do right now is minimize the playing of such imagery in any way possible. "In fact, I'm issuing a one-week moratorium on you saying the word 'sorry'. You think you can do that?"

"Okay…" After another minute he adds, with a significant amount of seriousness, "Thanks for all of this, by the way."

"Eh, think nothing of it. Also, you win."

"Huh?"

"You win. I concede defeat. Tracker jacker simulations ain't nothing compared to what you just subjected me through, and I don't want to even comprehend a way to top that."

"Oh, well thanks for that as well. I guess that being a birthday boy mean that I'm just on a roll right now." With just that last sentence, and despite the obvious fact that he's about ready to pass out any moment now, the kid seems to regain all the cheer he had lost recently. And because of that, I can't help but look forward to him returning to his previous upbeat self.

Still, since there's an image I need to maintain, I grumble, "I hate you."

This time there isn't even a millisecond of hesitation when, with a voice languid with sleepiness, he murmurs, "No you don't…"

As his breathing evens out, I mull the events of this past week. Finally, sleep begins to overtake me, but not before I sigh and mutter a small response of my own:

"No I don't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may or may not have been influenced by events relating to personal experience.


	10. Gaslit Power Plays

_That… whore. That fucking no-good, diseased, manipulative whore…_

I'm barely able to keep myself in check as the funicular transports me up the hill.  I know I'll have to maintain control if I'm to deal with the upcoming situation at hand. But it's so tempting right now to break something. Or someone. 

After the little… incident during Dio's birthday, the past week was actually a step in the right direction for him. Not only had he got quite a bit of his cheer back, but it no longer felt as artificial and carefully crafted as, I now realize, it was in the weeks prior. Nothing could bring him down, and as grating as such pep and exuberance was at points, I couldn't help but feel a bit buoyed by his happiness.

However, the events of the past few hours proved to me that I should have been more attentive that night; that I should have known that things like this are usually too good to be true.

* * *

***Earlier…***

"Are you sure?"

"It will just be a moment."

"Alright," I huff while looking at my watch, "I'm giving you fifteen minutes to do whatever it is that's so important. Then afterwards, we're moving on; I can only walk up and down this place for so long. That okay?"

"That's perfect!" I swear that the elated smile on the kid's face could light up a smoke-filled cave. "Thanks!" And just like that, he trots off towards the marina.

_Now what's this all about?_

Dio's suggestion for us to go to the Northern Boardwalk was odd enough as it is as most of the amenities are closed on Monday. I mean, I get the desire to avoid crowds, but it's usually better to visit in the middle of the week when there's a small crowd and stuff to do. But now he suddenly wants to go off on his own? If he really wanted to see boats, he could have told me, and I would have taken him to the Southern Boardwalk where the company ship is docked.

Usually, I'm loath to intrude on somebody else's business, but something about this is intriguing enough to make me decide to follow.

Tailing the kid is simple enough as all I have to do is move along the lower level of the boardwalk. It's a bit trickier when we actually reach the marina; I can't just walk right behind him on a pier, there're no continuous lower walkways, and each parallel pier is spaced too far to follow in that manner. Though tricky doesn't mean impossible.

So once he starts walking down the first pier, which is for the largest yachts, I run along the gates separating the boats from the tributary channel. All the while I keep at a seventy-five-degree angle from my lead so as not to tip him off.

As the kid finally slows to a halt, I hop onto the nearest dock and move to the maintenance level of the pier. Another set of footsteps along the wooden surface alerts me to a group of people disembarked from one of the boats. Just for the sake of scouting things out a bit, I decide to take a quick peek; once I do, however, my blood turns to ice, and I immediately hide back down to process the situation and… well… hide.

_Kid, what are you doing here? Get the hell away from her!_

That's when Dio decides to speak, and the footsteps quiet. "I'm happy you decided to see me again, Jesse. For a while there, I thought I had the wrong number." Indeed, there's no disguising his elation.

" _Jesse"? Why the hell are you calling her—Oh. Oh no… Dio, you naïve sonuvabitch…_

That's when it hits me. That's when I realize why the voice of Dio's date sounded so familiar. That's when a blanket of horror descends.  _Kid, you have no idea how in over your head you are._

And that's when said voice, laden with contempt, makes itself heard. "Who are you, and why are you in my way?"

I expected nothing less from a Dubois.

The following silence is almost palpable, and when Dio replies, there's no longer elation but rather confusion with a trace of hurt. "You told me to meet here after I called you."

"I did? I don't remember getting any call today. Where would you even get a number?"

"You… you gave it to me. Don't you remember?"

"Remember… what?" Almost a minute passes before she begins to laugh. "Oh… you can't be seriously be implying that we…"

"Last week. You helped me and Ned get home… You were my first…" Even as he says this, I can tell that Dio's becoming unsure by the second.

"'Ned'? You mean,  _Edwen Bannon_? Like I'd share a space with that psycho."  _Takes one to know one…_  "Boys, do either of you recall me being with this child?"

"Not at all," replies one her goons, while another adds, "I would've remembered it. And I don't forget faces."

"There you have it. They're always with me everywhere I go."

I should intervene, but as bad as this is right now, I know that it'd get worse with those thugs always flanking her and at the ready. So the only thing to hope for is this just blowing over.

Unfortunately, Dio doesn't take the hint but instead tries to press the issue. "That's the thing; I saw them too. So…"

"Are you calling me a liar?" she snaps.

"N-no, I didn't mean that!"

"Then why are you so insistent? What proof do you have? Is there any evidence of us being together? Of this call you mention?"

"I… don't…"

"Wow… you're something else… Is your sense of denial really that strong?"

"No, but I… I…" Finally, he concedes with an exhausted sigh, "You're probably right. I must have the wrong person…"

"There is no 'probably'. I know I'm right."

"I apologize for—"

"In fact, I bet that that there's not even a 'right person'."

"Wha—"

"You heard me; I bet there's not even any girl for you to mistake for me. All of this… The number, the memory… Are you sure it's even real? Here, give me that number you keep mentioning, and we'll do some fact-checking." A little time passes after Dio relays the sequence to Dubois before she finally says, "So then, what do you hear?"

"It… there's—"

"—nothing… nothing at all. Just as I thought. You probably imagined the whole thing in your head."

"But it…"

"Yes… it always  _feels_  so real. It's not your fault. It's amazing how the mind can delude itself when desperate. And it's clear that you reek of desperation." Dubois gently tuts. "Don't deny it.  _You_ know I'm right. Ah, yes, your eyes tell me realization has cut through ignorance."

When the kid manages to give a full reply, it's dull and inflectionless: "You're right."

"Let me hear that again." _No. Just go and leave him the fuck alone._

"You're right. You're definitely right." _Dammit, no she's not right! She's as wrong as anyone can be!_

"I'm  _always_  right. Do you know why that is?"

"I should go; I've wasted enough of y—"

"No, stay; consider this a life lesson out of my generosity. I'll tell you why there is no way I'd be with you.

"It's because you're a Career; it's because you're a Peacekeeper: a loyal lapdog of Snow's empire and enemy to the people. I can tell just by looking. After the Rebellion failed to finish the job, it's beyond me why they didn't round up and execute the remainder. It's obvious that the whole lot of you are nothing but a blight that holds back this nation.

"So that fantasy you built up? It's just that: a fantasy; nothing more. I mean seriously…" A cold laugh like shattering crystal cuts through the air. "Did you seriously think that someone like you — regardless of that…  _admirable_  body — could deserve someone like me?"

"… No."

"I didn't think so." Suddenly, her voice drops the venomous tones and gains a caring, almost nurturing, note to it. "There there… Don't be like that. Maybe… just maybe… there will be someone who… _pities_  you.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I actually have things of worth I need to deal with. Be glad you haven't tried my patience that much."

As the footsteps fade away, it just occurs to me that I have not moved an inch during the entire duration of the conversation.

What an idiot I am for not recognizing her voice earlier. If I wasn't so completely smashed, I would have turned her away as soon as she came within sight. The happiness the kid got in the past week's not worth dealing with her for even a millisecond.

_And you just hid away and gave her full reign to tear into him. Why didn't you intervene and put a stop to it? Was it just to satisfy some level of curiosity?_

_This would have gotten worse if I showed myself._

_Or maybe you're just a co—_

_No._

_Then do something._

I take a deep breath and exit from my hiding spot. After doubling back to enter through a dock nearer to the boardwalk, I walk down the pier to find Dio still standing in the same spot with his shoulders slumped and head bowed to stare straight at the ground. Despite that, I keep my own demeanor in a state of chirpiness whole approaching him.

"There you are! I've been looking all o—Hey, are you alright? Something didn't happen while I was gone, did it?"

The kid looks up at me with rapidly-yet-irregularly-blinking eyes and offers up a smile so weak, it looks like it's about to shake itself to pieces. "I'm okay… It's nothing; just… nothing…" He pauses a bit to gulp. "Can… can we go back home now?"

That's the best course of action right now, but again, being too acquiescent might be suspicious. "You mean our dorm? We just got here. Aren't you still loo—"

"Please?"

The way his voice cracks at the end of the last word makes any possible statement of mine die before it can even be formed, and so the only thing I can say is, "Yeah, yeah, alright. Let's head on back." I follow that up by patting him on the shoulder as we make our way towards the train station.

The kid's demeanor doesn't improve any during the wait for the train. If anything, he looks even worse than after the class session that started everything. I mean, he's doesn't have to be guided to where we need to go like before, which is always a good sign, but that doesn't hide how utterly sullen and… off he is right now. And with each passing second, I feel an unreasonable amount of rage pooling up inside me.

So by the time the train arrives and we board, the desire for action comes to fruition.

"You know what? You should go on ahead; there's something I need to take care of." Before Dio can decipher my intentions, the speakers on the train chime with that cheery jingle signaling imminent closure; so right as the fifth-out-of-seventh note is blared, I hop back onto the platform and turn around just in time to see the kid's confusion transition to a state of panic when the doors slam shut. I can't hear what pleas he's screaming while plastered to the window of the now-moving train; I just smile, wave, and yell, "Don't worry! I'll be back shortly."

Just as well, considering that the train headed to my planned destination has just pulled into the platform.

* * *

***Now***

"Cashel's Reserve. Eighteen-year. Neat."

Persephone raises an eyebrow as I plop myself at the bar. "You're here early."

"Just meeting someone special…" The shot glass barely hits the counter before I pound it back and allow the fiery Celtic elixir to smooth things out a bit. "Another."

"Something tells me that this someone special isn't going to be in for an average friendly chat."

"Well, it wouldn't be special now, would it," I state with a grin. "One more."  _Ah… that hits the spot._

"Señor Bannon, I was hoping that we could speak."

The arrival of the new speaker causes me clarify, "Okay, this isn't that 'someone special', but it probably falls under the 'not an average friendly chat' clause." With my grin still in place, I pivot on the stool to face the lady standing behind me. "Madam Ambassador, how may I help you?"

"I think you know what this is about, and I'm glad I caught you sooner than later." On the bright side, Ambassador Silva doesn't seem to be angry — flustered would be a better term — as she takes a seat right next to me. "Caipiriña, please."

"I'll have what the lady's having," I tell the bartender, "but with honey not sugar."

"Tupelo?"

"As usual." Once we get our drinks, I turn back to the ambassador. "So… I take this is about a little incident last week involving some star athlete."

"Let's just say the people of Porto Alegre aren't exactly happy about their star centre forward being put out of commission for the next several games due to a concussion… or requiring several teeth to be replaced. We're lucky that it's nothing serious, nor is this the season where the national team is fielded; otherwise things may… have not gone over well."

"And what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, while we can't identify the 'yellow-eyed brute' Señor Schmidt and his colleagues were babbling about, there was a mention of a 'scarred, red-headed imp with eyes of contrasting color'. That narrowed things down slightly."

"'Imp', huh?" I almost snort into my drink. "Am I in trouble?" I hope not. Maybe at another time a diplomatic incident could be lively, but I don't need one on top of my concerns right now.

"I'm just curious to hear your side of things before we issue an official statement."

"Alright, how's this for an account: that 'brute' that those… classy fellows mentioned? He decided to tell Mr. Schmidt — I assume he's the concussed — off for harassing a girl. Well,  _my_  colleague got yelled at and shoved for his trouble. So I intervened and admittedly said a few things, including a threat to buy his team — for the record, I have no interest in purchasing it — and a comment about his manhood. It got me punched in the face, and my colleague retaliated in my defense. And that's that."

"So it was Señor Schmidt who instigated everything?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll even sign a release on the security footage if you so wish."

"That won't be necessary," Silva says as she stands up with her glass and sets a coin on the counter.

I can't help but blink a bit in surprise. "So… that's it?"

"That's it. Let's just say that this wasn't the last time there has been an incident with this certain individual; I just needed to confirm things for myself. The only announcement I'm going to make is just a generic statement about respecting personal and cultural boundaries. And between you, me, and Señorita Borealis here…" she says with a small smile, "I'm personally an Atlético Asunción supporter.

"Anyways, good day to you. And if not earlier, then I'll be seeing at the gala."

As the ambassador heads off to her table, I myself raise my glass a bit in farewell and turn back to Persephone to chirp, "That went well."

She just shakes her head and huffs, "I swear, Ned… There's going to be a time when you get yourself in trouble and things won't work out in your favor."

"But that's not now, which is all that matters." I dispense with the light demeanor to glare at the bartender. "Seph, why didn't you tell me that Dio left this place with Dubois?"

Despite my tone, Persephone's completely unruffled. "You never asked. And you know it's not my place to give information out of the blue. If I did that, you think that Elysium would be as popular of a hangout as it is?" It's sort of an open secret that this was where members of the Rebellion met before the war; many times just out of earshot of those loyal to Snow.

"Well it isn't like your drinks aren't an incentive," I say with a smirk before giving a long exhale and running my hand through my hair. "It's just… if I knew about this earlier, a crisis could have been averted today."

"Also if you didn't get so wasted…"

"No thanks to you."

"Okay, I'll concede that I should've cut you off earlier."

"It's cool… and you're right about me needing to be aware. Though in the end, the only person I'm angry about is Jezebel Duboi—"

"It's always nice to be the topic of conversation," an infuriatingly smooth voice cuts in.

 _About time…_  I make sure to finish off the rest of the caipiriña before slamming the glass down and bellowing, "Well trumpet the strumpet, and she shall show!"

At my little announcement, all ambient conversation ceases as I look to bare my teeth at said topic.

Jezebel Dubois, daughter of Jacob Dubois, CEO of Dubois Enterprises, the second most powerful company in the nation. There are strongly substantiated rumors that the elder Dubois, colloquially known as "Boss" Dubois, was in charge of Six's underworld before the Rebellion. After the Capitol fell, his contributions during the war ended up rewarding him greatly. Now, he controls most of the industry in his district — it helps that, if you live in Six, you have to be signed up to his organization to work in any of the major factories — and oversees most of the rail transport in the nation.

As for the younger Dubois… well… let's just say she's not your ordinary vapid heiress. Despite the cultivated look and demeanor that gives her the image of an airheaded bimbo… make no mistake; she's much smarter and ruthless than first impressions give. I won't say that I respect her, but I'm more than aware enough not to underestimate the danger she poses.

She's also a horrible tipper.

In any case, if she's insulted by my statements, it's not shown. "Really, Ned: the sun hasn't yet set, and you're already making a scene?"

"Really,  _Jesse_ :" I shoot back as I saunter over to her, "you're up and about with no goons watching your back?"

"They decided to have some fresh air." In other words, she knew I was going to be here, and they are waiting for me.  _Wonderful…_

"Well, fresh air may do wonders for their disposition. Oh, and  _don't call me Ned_ ," I growl before having my voice go back to normal as I point to the bar. "Anyways, there's no reason we can't be… civil and have a nice chat."

After we take a seat and get our drinks — I just settle on a West City Brewery pale ale and ignore the worried look Persephone's giving me — I decide to cut to the chase: "Why did you do that to Dio? More to the point, why did you lie with him? Don't bother saying otherwise; I was awake for that."

A devious little smile appears on her face. "Oh you were, were you? That must have been  _quite_  the experience."

"Don't change the topic." I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing how uncomfortable that was for me.

"You know, I remember the time when I tried to woo you…"

"Yeah, classic honeypot. Your point?"

"I'm getting there. That's when I found out how much of a NonCon you were."

Despite everything, I let off a small chuckle. "And you thought I was the usual type and ended up sending a  _guy_  to seduce me." Instead, I matched and exceeded Dubois' price to make him an informant… until he… disappeared. "It must quite a heartbreaker to not be someone's type."

"I'm everyone's type."

"Not mine," I snarl as I lean forward. "What does this have to do with Dio?"

"My… you're quite protective of that friend of yours."

"He's… not my friend. He's a… colleague."

"Still, when I saw you standing up to Matheus last week, there's no denying that you have quite the protective streak."

"He's a good kid. Way better than the likes of you."

"Or you."

"I don't deny it."

"I'm sure. I will say that he refused to divulge any information about you, no matter how much I asked. He only spoke about what a great guy you are." She looks as if she swallowed something bitter.

And everything fits into place. "You were trying to get information about me."

"You always catch on quickly." From anyone else, that sincere statement would be complementary; from her, it just makes me want to shower. "And usually, finding that weak link works pretty well." 

I don't miss the unspoken statement that it didn't work this time, and despite everything, my chest swells in pride for the kid.

However, that feeling of buoyant satisfaction is quickly brought down when Dubois adds, "As for the other reasons… there's no denying that it was fun."

"I could tell," I grit out, which just makes her smug grin grow.

"Not merely for the act itself, but being someone's first. Things may be awkward, but they usually allow me to be in control. Complete… control." She turns to the grin to me. "Your…  _kid_  was no different. Quite the obedient boy… and skilled when—"

"I got the point!" I bark. "And today?"

The grin widens. "It's still me being in control. And nothing says control like convincing somebody that your truth is inalienable and unassailable. It was almost pathetic how easy it was for that boy. Now think of being able to implement it for a group of useful idiots."

"Then focus on the idiots," I growl. "Not him."  

"That's where we get to the last reason: you," she says while pointedly looking at my glass. It's just then that I notice how tightly I'm gripping it, or that my hand is shaking. "That boy may not have been a weak link in terms of information… but I can clearly see that he's your weak link."

Even though I'm familiar enough with this piece of work, I'm barely able to glare in equal parts hate and incomprehension. Seriously, just when I think I figure out how low Dubois is willing to stoop, she somehow managed to surprise me in the worse way possible.

When I finally regain my voice, the only thing I can state is, "You're depraved…" 

"Such a strong word coming from you, Bannon," Dubois tuts. "You, of all people, should know never to pass an opportunity by. And no matter how many stepping stones I need to walk over, I always get what I want."

"And what is it that you want?" I don't really want to know, but find the need to ask.

"Aw… isn't it obvious?" she asks with a pout and tone of mock-innocence before allowing the smile to return. "Power. Simple as that. Power is a means and an end unto itself; it allows me to live the life I have; it allows me to rise above the rest; it allows me to answer 'why' with 'why not'. And I'll do whatever, or whoever, it takes to gain more because I can. Everything else simply falls into place afterwards. And the best part is… people already know that about me. Yet they still line up for more; it's amazing what looks and personality can do. It's why I always win. You, on the other hand… the only thing people know about you is your oh-so-pleasant attitude. Other than that, you're a mystery, and not in a good way. What  _did_  you do before the Rebellion?"

"Ain't yours or nobody else's concern. Just stay away from Dio."

All my demand does is elicit a giggle. "Back to the boy, are we? Well don't worry; he's useless to me now. But I do wonder…" The giggle sharpens into a predatory smile. "If I wanted him again, how would you stop me?"

"I—"

" _I_  know how much you like to threaten lesser individuals. You're a wild dog trying to pass itself off as human. Unfortunately for you, I'm no lesser. And I have better PR and a larger constituent base. What do you have? And if you say 'my company'… well, let's see how long that lasts."

And here we are at the crux of the issue, not to mention why this trollop is gunning for me and everyone around me. It all boils down to Dubois Enterprises' desire to overtake Panem Dynamics any way it can. And since it can't go it about the usual way, Dubois is there to nut tap everybody to gain an advantage. It's kinda sad really…

"Well compared to you," I say with a smirk my own, "I reckon it's gonna last a while."

And if only for a second, I see Dubois' grin falter ever so slightly before she recovers. "Well then, let's compare our main power bases. Because what's yours made of? A couple cities with a community that stood by during the Rebellion; a podunk town that's just known for the treasonous Mockingjay and her deranged boyfriend; and District Two, which speaks for itself.

"We, on the other hand, are centered in a district that is not only the most populous but also the most industrious, and our closest allies consist of the main supplier of the nation's grain and the leader of the Rebellion."

"Impressive… and yet with all of that, you still end up in second place," I gently tut as I shake my head and give a slow clap. "It must be quite painful."

Dubois ignores my tone. "My point is that people are going to question your standing. Especially the whole playing nice with Peacekeepers part."

"Spare me the manufactured outrage; there're no zealots here to whip into a frenzy. And we both know that if Snow were still in power, you'd be spouting loyalist shit in public," I counter. "Besides, don't think I don't know what color uniform most of your soldiers used to wear."

"At least ours fought for the Rebellion."

"You mean that legion fought for your dear pa's little… 'enterprise'," I clarify. "Though, with all of that manpower, you'd think that most of Six's rebel leaders would have made it through the war; unfortunate that ain't the case. Or should I say 'convenient'?" 

"Now, Bannon, I would have thought better than stooping to those baseless allegations." To my satisfaction, Dubois' calm and smooth voice fails to mask how brittle her smile currently is.

"Sure… 'baseless'. And I reckoned you to be smart enough to not try the Peacekeeper argument against me. Never mind that there are just as many former rebs in our ranks. At least our security force is just that: security for our assets. They ain't some private army that gets contracted out to the highest bidder. Because I reckon something like that makes people feel  _really_  comfortable." I snort in my drink. "I really hope their discomfort surpasses their blindness just so that you folks get exposed. It would be quite a sight to behold to watch as your entire organization gets dismantled from the bottom-up. And who knows… if you finally become irredeemable in the eyes of the nation… maybe I'll get to kill you."

This time, my chirpy statement causes Dubois' smile to fall completely away. "And maybe  _I'll_  get to figure out that little mystery of yours and use it to destroy the reputation of your parents and their company. The executions can come later; I'm patient." As she gets up to head to one of the tables, this bint adds one last tidbit over her shoulder: "Perhaps I'll keep your… 'colleague' around as a nice little boy-toy. Who else will console him?"

I almost rise out of my chair at that, but a firm hand on my shoulder stops me. "Easy. You know that gets you nowhere."

It takes me a couple deep breaths and several long chugs before I finally calm down. "Thanks, Seph." I make sure to look at Persephone critically though. "Thought you ain't supposed to pick sides."

She just keeps her focus on the latest order. "I'm just keeping the peace."  _Uh huh…_  "Still, be careful."

"You don't have to worry about me, it not like I'm—" My eyes go wide as I check for a nonexistent baton and chem pens. "Fuck…"

That's when I remember that they are all back at the dorm being looked over by Dio. He may not agree with me carrying such weapons around, but he's still the closest person who's able to follow the repair and maintenance manual. And I completely forgot about them.

Persephone must read my realization, because she looks at me apologetically and says, "Sorry, but you know that downstairs is closed. No exceptions."

"Yeah yeah…" I say as I slide off my stool, drop my tip, and get ready to head out. "Oh well, I've been through worse."

"Spoken like a true child of Central…"

The bland accent-less voice makes my back stiffen, and I turn to regard the man sitting just a couple stools away from me. "How long have you been there, Professor?"

Suetonius simply regards me with that dry stare of his. "After all of that, you are just now so formal? You surprise me, Edwen." When I don't say anything in return, he huffs slightly and continues: "But if you are so curious, I have been here since your interview with the ambassador."

"You really know how to slip under the radar, don't you."

"It is how I have stayed alive."

"Okay, color me impressed," I quip, "but don't think I forgot what you said to Dio."

"I do not expect you to. Nor do I expect you to forget what I told dear Brinna. You cannot always protect them. You understand, yes?"

"Sure. Doesn't change anything."

"Possibly. To be fair, I do think that Dio has quite a bit of potential in the positive direction. But the very opposite could occur… or nothing. All the more interesting considering that one from Central is his… is 'companion' a fair term?"

I shrug. "It works. And speaking of which, what makes you so sure that I'm a 'child of Central'."

"Besides the fact that I looked over your dossier," —  _Oh, duh…_  — "and that your dialect has become quite pronounced lately?"

 _Oh, shit._  I didn't even realize that. "It ain't still—ah, dammit!" I scowl a bit at the now-slightly amused professor. "Alright, besides that."

"Just the hints of your basic disdain towards standardized morality contrasted with your seeming protectiveness of those close to you. Of course, it is not something endemic or universal to that community, but it does seem to be a fairly reoccurring theme among many residents, yes?"

"And just how are you so familiar with us?" I ask as I begin my trek out.

"Now that is easy…" he says with a slight chuckle, "I helped Porus and the victors usher in its rebirth."

I'll admit that bit of info causes me to turn around in no small amount of shock, but all Suetonius does is wave me off dismissively. Just as well considering he'll probably be the least of my concerns in a few minutes.

And sure enough, Dubois' goons are standing right outside the gateway

I know there's no point in pleading or anything like that. So the only thing I do is make sure my collar is undone and give a small request:

"Just try not to break anything. I highly doubt the President will be pleased if she finds one of her students to be crippled."

The slight amount of hesitation on the thugs' faces gives me just enough of an opportunity to attempt my escape.

"Attempt" being the key word.

~oOo~

"Hey… I'm back…"

My… triumphant-and-totally-not-ragged entry back into the dorm is greeted by the sight of Dio slouching on the sofa and doing nothing else; usually around this time, he'd be pouring over assigned reading material, sketching, or working with one of his puzzles. However, when the kid looks up at me, with suspiciously swollen and bloodshot eyes, his state of brooding seems to be replaced with abject horror.

"Ned! What happened to you?" Next thing I know, he's at my side. "Are you alright?"

I choke down a snort at my roommate's ridiculous query and swat away his attempts to help; all the while trundling towards the sofa. "Ain't nothing to concern yourself over. May have ran my mouth off a bit, which I reckon some folks didn't take too kindly to."

To be fair, I'm pretty sure Dubois' thugs took my warning to heart as nothing seems broken; still, there's enough bruising to make me appear multicolored, my nose and lips have just stopped bleeding, my left eye is swollen shut, and my clothes are bloodstained and scuffed. They didn't take anything either, which is always a plus; the harlot's smart enough to know in the event of that, I'd be able to legally corner her. The train ride back  _was_  a source of amusement via the looks on the faces of the other passengers. Probably the other source of amusement came from releasing my booze-laden stomach contents — gut-punches tend to do that — into the eyes one of the thugs; it plus the adrenaline-high actually helped me to make my escape.

The kid seems to be less amused as sober realization crosses his face, and he looks away from me to quietly state, "This was about me, wasn't it."

I'm not going to lie to him, but I don't believe that the truth necessarily always sets one free. So I settle for evasion: "What makes you think that?"

However, I can tell that simply confirms Dio's statement, and he reestablishes eye contact. "Tell me what happened. Please."

With a sigh, and knowing there's no weaseling my way out of this, I tell him everything: about my eavesdropping at the boardwalk and conversation at Elysium; about what kind of person Dubois is; about the reasons she used him; and about the fact that I got a bit in over my head.

By the time I finish the conversation, the kid looks away again from me in shame. "Ned, I—"

"Ah, ah, ah…" My finger is wagged in his general direction. "Technically, a full week may have already passed since our agreement, but since this is still Monday, the moratorium is still in effect."

That just makes him utterly incredulous. "How can you been treating this so lightly?"

"I've been in worse—agh! Oh, ow…" Okay, shrugging's a bad idea. Immediately on the heel of my involuntary exclamation, I attempt to diffuse the situation by giving a smile and double-thumbs-up despite the fact that the action alone sends waves of nausea over me. Judging by the increasing amount of alarm and distress joining Dio's preexisting state of shame, I think my attempts have a minimal level of success.

"You shouldn't have gotten yourself hurt for me," he mutters before getting up.

"I didn't d—Hey!" Before I can comprehend what's happening, the kid crouches down, grabs my arms to sling them over his shoulders, and immediately moves for the door. "What are you doing?"

Despite my squawks of protest and intermittent yelps of pain, the only reply he gives is, "This would probably be easier for both of us if you pull your legs up and grab my shoulders." For some reason, I actually comply as he switches his grip. "Why didn't you get medical attention?"

"Ain't serious, and I was already planning on getting looked at. I just…" Right as I realize what I'm about to say, I allow the statement to trail off in the hopes that it's not noticed.

Of course, I'm not that lucky. Dio doesn't slow his pace as we exit the building but looks back at me with a puzzled expression. "You just… what?"

"It's nothing…" I mumble before scowling back. "You ain't seriously thinking of walking all the way to Panem General like this, are you?"

"Of course not…" Just to prove the point, he sets off in a run. "Okay, so you just what?" he repeats.

Knowing how damn persistent the kid can be when setting his mind to something, I finally relent and give a small mutter:

"Just needed to make sure you're alright…"

~oOo~

Even after being patched up, lingering soreness from yesterday causes me to get up a bit earlier than usual; the sky is still mostly silvery with just a hint of the sun beginning to make its presence known. As evident by the lump present on the top bunk, I actually managed to wake before Dio, which is no small feat.

So after getting clean and making sure the alarm won't go off, I decide to head down for breakfast. Normally the kid would accompany me, but I'm too hungry to wait up for him; also, considering how much he fretted over me last night, I could do without his company until class time.

Of course, the last thing I expect to see when opening the door is a startled and frozen Julian Jenson standing right at the threshold with his fist raised in preparation of knocking.

Despite all that happened lately, a snort of stifled laughter escapes me at the ridiculous sight, and the humor of the situation increases when Jenson's eyes widen and jaw drops as he takes in the sight of me; I knew I should've gone with the solid buff vest instead of the pinstriped brown today.

"Morning to you too…"

My dry statement seems successful in shaking him out of the state of frozen bemusement, and he quickly lowers his hand. Granted, he immediately follows that up with a frantic, "Sir, are you alright?"

"Never been better. You should try getting beat up sometime; it keeps the blood flowing." Judging by the look on Jenson's face, I don't think that he sure as whether to take my statement as sincere or serious. "How do you think I feel; it fucking hurts! But as you can see, I'm mobile and shit. Now… is there a reason you came here at seven in the morning, or did you simply feel like loitering?"

"Oh!"  _Idiot…_  "Uh, well, Mr. Bannon, you're to come with me."

Well this is new… "What, I'm in trouble with the school now?"

"Nothing of the sort… I think…"

"In which case, I'm not sure if you were aware, but I kinda have class today." I don't know why, but I'm feeling slightly argumentative right now. "Also I'm hungry and need to get something to eat."

"That's already taken care of, sir. I'm told to inform you that breakfast will be provided and that you're to bring any essentials with you as I'll be dropping you off at your class afterwards."

Despite the young former Peacekeeper's usual skittish nature, there's actually a slightly firm tone in his last statement which conveys a simple message:  _"Attendance is not optional."_

While it does makes me go back to pick up my school bag, it doesn't succeed in diffusing all of my desire to be argumentative. "Can I at least know why my morning routine has been interrupted?"

He shakes his head and shrugs. "I don't know all of the details, sir. All I know is this:

"President Paylor would like to speak with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware that Miss Dubois' first name is about as subtle as a speeding freight train. On fire.


	11. Morning Appointment

Right on the heels of Jenson's declaration, it's as if everything comes to a screeching halt. Granted, at this time of the day, the general pace of things is already like that of a snail, but you get my drift.

Finally, I manage to regain my voice and, with great eloquence, ask for a clarification: "Uh… come again?"

"President Paylor would like to speak with you," repeats the courier in a matter-of-fact manner that seems utterly at odds with the actual content of the message.

Okay, I'm not saying that the idea of me talking to the President has me all giddy with anticipation or shaking with dread; she's in my class and already has talked to me face-to-face recently. It's just that, if she's calling me for a one-on-one meeting at the Mansion…  _wait, is it at the Mansion?_

"Are you taking me to the Mansion?"

"Uh… yes?" Jenson looks at me as if it's the most obvious fact in the world; it makes me glower at the cheeky idiot for his insolence.

Anyways, if there's going to be a meeting at the Mansion, it probably means that it's of at least slight significance. Oh well; should be interesting.

"Before I go, let me take care of something first." I quickly rush next to Delly's room to inform her that I'm going to be at a meeting — I don't mention where or with whom — for the whole morning and follow that up by asking her to check up on Dio as early as possible in my stead. As ecstatic as our RA was about Dio's… adventure the morning of his birthday, she was absolutely livid — after freaking out over my appearance — when I told her about what happened yesterday. So I'm unsurprised that she instantly agrees to check up on the kid.

With all that done, I meet back with Jenson and say, "Alright, let's go."

The moment we get outside, however, I'm a bit confused as to how we're going to get there as I don't see the bus or even any car in sight. The only parked transport is a… is a… a…

 _Oh hell no…_ "Please don't tell me we're taking  _that_."

Jenson looks almost hurt at my statement as he glances between me and the vehicle. "What's wrong with it? A hovercraft all the time is impractical, and this helps get through traffic, which is getting pretty heavy right now."

"It's a deathtrap; that's what's wrong with it! You can't expect me to get on that thing!"

"Sir, we're pressed for time, and you don't want to keep the President waiting, do you?" As if for emphasis, he holds out a helmet to me.

Finally, I begrudgingly take the helmet and put it on while Jenson gets the motorcycle ready to go; ironically, and in contrast my extreme reservations, all skittishness seems to dissipate from the courier's demeanor as he gains an expression of pure focus. As I take my seat behind him, my grip tightens on his shoulders when he starts up the engine, and the machine comes to life with a low purr that increases in volume into a revved-up growl.

The idling engine is almost enough to distract me from the statement quietly muttered by the former Peacekeeper: "I'm a leaf on the wind…"

"Wait, what does that even mea—AAAH!"

~oOo~

_Never again…_

"Remember: don't worry about finding a ride to your class; I'll be ready to take there after the meeting," Jenson chirps with an uncharacteristic amount of levity in his voice and a disgustingly smug expression on his face.

_Okay, never again after today…_

I seriously don't know how he weaved the contraption through traffic — moving… gridlocked… it didn't make a difference — like that at full speed. All I know is that I'm sure several traffic laws, not to mention the laws of physics, were defied in the process; I'm just as sure that it's likely a good thing that I didn't eat breakfast before this commute from hell.

With my state of being, the only reply I can give to the courier is a glower in his direction and grumbled choice oaths about possible things the rebels could have done to him — unfortunately, it doesn't put a damper on his mood — before I… gracefully make my way to totter up the steps to the Mansion.

There's some irony in the fact that the Presidential Mansion housed several of the most hated individuals in this nation and was a symbol of Capitol consumption… yet, after all's said and done, it still looks completely pristine — sure there's still some apparent damage around the front steps that I suspect will never get replaced, but that's about it — despite being at the mercy of the new government. I suppose a building becomes a bit too costly to simply demolish or alter significantly when the vast bulk comprised of luminous marble of a pure enough white that it actually gets quite painful to look at during clear afternoons; not to mention how the dome is polished and chrome-plated so as to clearly reflect the surrounding city, mountains, and sky with no aberrations marring the shape-induced distortion. 

Considering that this complex houses a couple major governmental departments as well, as the residence of a president overseeing a nation that's in the midst of rebuilding itself from a state of utter suckiness, what isn't a surprise is how I have to go through several layers of security before I'm even allowed in the building itself; after a certain point, the questions and searches seem veer from responsible to repetitive. Finally everything checks out and a receptionist comes to greet me and show me the way — read: make sure I don't wander around into places I'm not supposed to go — to the main office.

Of course, the Capitolite — I'm pretty sure that I have seen her from somewhere, but it's not registering right now since I missed her name — reacts in a predictable manner when getting a good look at my face; the shriek sounds like it could wake up everybody else in a five-block radius. "Are you alright?"

 _I will be when people stop asking me that._  But instead of voicing my thoughts, I smile at her and chirp, "Nothing a couple days of rest can't fix. Now, I take it that President Paylor wanted to speak with me."

My indirect statement to hurry things along does get the receptionist back on track, and she proceeds to escort me along while praising the fact that I'm on schedule. Also, she seems to fancy herself an architectural expert and doesn't hesitate to double as a tour guide by explaining the sights as we traverse the halls of the massive building.

The era of Snow may be gone, but it's clear that the ostentatious gilding that floods the interior of the place is definitely a holdover from pre-Rebellion times, especially during Agrippa's reign. While most surviving statues of past non-Golden Age presidents have been moved to the National Museum, there are still massive murals depicting scenes of glorified battlegrounds or various Games; granted, they are now accompanied by informational projections describing the reality of many of the scenes. The only major difference is the bronze seal under the spacious rotunda: previously it was the Capitol eagle clutching a bundle of rods in its talons, and now it's a mockingjay clutching a lone primrose in its beak.

In due time, we reach the Presidential Office —  _real novel name right there_  — after traveling up a flight of stairs and all the way to the back of the Mansion; supposedly the office was originally located at the front and connected to the main balcony, but for some reason, the last few Snows were leery about having their office facing the public and overhauled things into this configuration. While still fairly ornate, the room past the double doors is relatively austere compared to corridors I've passed through — no elaborate murals or overdone gilding veering every square inch of the walls — with warm earth tones typifying the paint scheme and the slightest bit of gilding to accent things. Not to say there isn't stuff to make it cozy; a set of a bookshelves; a liquor cabinet with a crystal decanter set sitting on top; various arms and armaments set on the wall; artifacts from various nations; and a diverse set of artwork, some of which I suspect came from a certain victor. Paintings of the first four Presidents of Panem — the Snows who are actually unambiguously respected by most people, even today — flank the doorway at even intervals and are opposite from the floor-to-ceiling lattice windows overlooking the valley holding the Presidential Gardens.

"Enjoying the view?"

The warm and slightly amused voice brings my attention to the President of Panem sitting behind the large mahogany desk. What's with everybody being so peppy this morning? I don't know how she does it, but at this moment, Paylor holds herself with a demeanor that exudes equal parts weariness and energy, and yet those two don't cancel each other out or undermine the air of authority she commands. Standing next to her is a man of similar age who just looks weary with a bit of stodginess, though it's not hard to see that said attitude belies a cunning yet familiarly empathetic intelligence. Both of them also wear identical looks of worry and concern upon getting a good look at me but thankfully don't say anything.

In any case, it's sort of poor form to just stand here and look at everything. "You could say that, Madam President. After all, it's the first time I've been here," I concede with a small nod and grin as I shake her hand. "Anyways, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did. Take a seat," she says while gesturing at the chair in front of her before looking over my shoulder to wordlessly dismiss my tour guide. Once I get myself situated, the president gets to the important topic at hand: "You're probably hungry right now. Is there any preference for food? Coffee?"

"No preference, ma'am. Though I don't drink coffee; do you have hot chocolate?"

"Yes, we do." After making an order over the intercom, she gestures to the now-sitting man next to her. "Before we get stated, I'd like to introduce to you to Dr. Marus Aurelius. Doctor, this is Edwen Bannon."

"I've heard of him," I say at exactly the same time Aurelius states, "I've read his file."

 _Do I hear a hint of disproval in your voice?_  Something tells me that we aren't exactly going to eye-to-eye on certain topics.

However, before any more discussion can take place, attendants arrive with the food. I was just expecting something like a waffle and a biscuit, but to my pleasant surprise, what's brought out is pretty much a full-course meal. In front of me is a platter laden with hashbrowns and biscuits smothered in sausage gravy, a thick slab of sugar-cured ham, couple pieces of toast with eggs fried into them, and creamy grits infused with a generous helping of butter. Most people at my social level would consider such an assortment quaint at best and horribly pedestrian at worse; I just see good food and some memories of home.

Paylor must sense my surprise as she smiles at me as if she's a teacher — granted, that's what she was — and I'm a new kid in a primary class. "Just because I'm president, doesn't mean that I can't indulge a taste of home." I guess that makes two of us… "Though the ingredients used are a bit higher quality than what I could afford before the Rebellion."

I raise a spoonful of grits in acknowledgement. "Well give my compliments to your chef, because it's good regardless. Even better that you didn't Capitolify it with unnecessary techniques and ingredients." I like the fancy stuff as much as the next guy, but sometimes simple is best. Though hot chocolate is something where you can't get too fancy, and the thick and sweet concoction doesn't disappoint with a hint of vanilla and topped with a nutmeg-dusted mountain of whipped cream; a shot of cognac probably wouldn't hurt, but I suspect that the present company would disapprove despite me being of age.

Which reminds me that I'm not here just to stuff myself with a good meal. So as our plates are taken away and replaced with a tray laden with a diverse set of cookies, I get right to the point: "Alright, with all due respect ma'am, civil formalities are alright and good, but I suspect that whatever reason you called me here is not something that's going to be discussed in polite company. So is it ok if we're frank with each other?"

Despite a small bit of hesitation and expression that shows she's going to probably regret it, Paylor responds in the positive: "I don't see why not."

"Thanks. In which case…" I take a deep breath. "Why am I here, and what's with the shrink? Have you all finally come to the conclusion that picking me was a poor choice?"

Paylor's about ready to say something, but Aurelius cuts in with a proper and professional manner that belies his thinly-veiled dislike towards me: "This isn't about you; at least not directly."

"Oh, really?"

The two look between each other as if confirming what they are about to tell me is a good idea, before Paylor decides to go first: "From what I've been told, you've been wondering a bit as to why you were chosen for this program over less-fortunate boys who also met all the requirements yet haven't had such a… controversial past as you."

"You could say that…"

"Well, I think you deserve to learn the truth about why we picked you." She takes a deep breath before continuing. "It's about your roommate."

 _What._  "I'm… not following…"

This time, Aurelius is the one to explain. "I'm not sure if he's told you, but I've taken Dio as my patient for the duration he's here."

Well, that explains his appointments… Though the explanation raises a whole new subject that I'm not exactly sure I'm going to like. "And what, pray tell, does the kid seeing a shrink have to do with me?"

"Dio was always the choice of ours due to his capabilities and work ethic as highlighted by the recommendation given to us. We'd be remiss to not give someone like him a chance like this."

"That's great and all — no, it really is; I think he deserves it — but I'm sensing a 'but' here…"

This time, the doctor grimaces a bit. "Unfortunately, his background, which I know he's already told you about, meant that it was inevitable that he would be ostracized by his peers. So we needed at least someone who has been proven to view such a background in a neutral light."

"Ah, so the choosing  _was_  rigged," I chuckle, "but just not in the way I expected."

Aurelius is quick to try and dispel that. "Everybody picked met all of the requirements, including you. Everything after that was subjective decision-making, and we made an exception to single you out since you were the only one who met our profile as someone who could look after Dio."

The last part causes me to narrow my eyes slightly. "I get that you wanted someone who wouldn't treat the kid like dirt. But what exactly do you mean 'look after' him?"

That's when a subtle layer of discomfort settles on both president and shrink before the latter concludes, "Your background showed that you were not only the most likely candidate to look past another person's background; it also met our criteria for things such as physical ability and combat readiness."  _Wait, combat readiness?_  "And with what we've concluded about Dio's… past experiences and possible mental health, we needed somebody who could be prepared for any contingency."

And everything finally settles into place; however, it still takes me a moment to find my voice. "Wait, wait, wait… so let me get this straight: you're telling me that there's a good chance that the kid actually may go all Mellark on us? And—"

"I know that we agreed to speak frank with each other, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that phrase." Paylor doesn't even raise her voice when interjecting, but there's enough causticity behind those words that I mutter a quick apology before I even know what's happening.

"Still, in the end, only reason I was picked was so that I'd be the one to be nice with him one moment and put him down the next?"

"Actually, you were picked because you seemed to be the most likely to subdue him in a nonlethal manner." The way the president explains things is so casual that she might as well be telling me that our room was picked for the best views. "Your actions over three years ago proved such capability. You even got recognized f—"

"I also got  _this_ ," I growl while pointing at my right eye. "Besides, how do you even know that story?"

They both look at me as if I'm daft. "You do know there's a reason you put down a reference contact, don't you? We not only talked to Beetee but also Corporal Stone, Provost Lewis, and Commander Porus. All that accounts they gave us confirmed your candidacy."

No wonder Luce was so sure about my chances, the smug bastard. "Whatever… So your point that there's a good chance that Dio may have an episode… but just in case he does, you prefer that he not get killed off. And for some reason, I'm the most capable guy for the job."

"Why do you think security allows you to carry those concealed weapons of yours into class?"

Paylor's rhetorical query pulls me up short.  _Shit, they actually knew about that?_  Frankly, I'm probably too freaked-out by that fact to be grateful or anything. "Here's a better question: why didn't you all tell me about this in the very beginning?"

"If we had, what do you think you would've done? Would you have still given him a chance?"

"I…"  _Would I?_  "That's not the point. You can't expect to just throw somebody into a situation like this."

"Look, I apologize for not informing you earlier." At the very least, she sounds genuinely apologetic. "We just wanted to give Dio a chance to interact with someone who wouldn't have any preconceptions about him. And informing you is the whole point of this meeting, which was planned from the beginning—"

"—because you wanted to give us ample time to get to know each other," I conclude with a sigh.

Paylor nods her head. "And this is still relatively early on in the semester to give you ample room to back out if you want. You are free to do so, and can even remain in the program if you so wish. In the meantime, since nobody else meets our requirements for cohabitation with him, Dio would be placed under supervised custody."

For just a brief moment, I'm able to imagine the look on the kid's face as I tell him that I'm no longer his roommate and he's now on his own with nobody else but a security detail to keep him company; it's honestly not something I'd look forward to seeing in-person. It also makes me narrow my eyes at the head of state. "You know… when you put it like that, it makes me come off as quite the prick. You're more manipulative than I've given you credit for… ma'am."

Aurelius is about to say something but is silenced when Paylor gives him a warning look; after a moment's pause, and a pinch on the bridge of his nose, he mumbles, "Can you at least hear us out first? I'm not sure why, but Dio looks up to you and doesn't hesitate to talk about you during our appointments."

"He… talks about me?"

"Well the one point of our appointments is to have a progress report, so an in-depth discussion of everything that goes on around him is expected; that includes his roommate. He does say that your views on some things are questionable at best and that you like wrap yourself in a hostile demeanor; yet he still asserts that underneath that attitude is a good person." The shrink leans back and stares at the ceiling to vocally contemplate, "I'm honestly curious as to what he'd say if he found out the full extent of your past."

A small frown forms on my face at that. "What do you mean, 'full extent'?"

"I'm talking about your work in Central and the fact that you used human test subjects."

The full implication behind that statement completely catches me off guard. I know that he didn't reveal anything to Dubois, but considering that he appears to have revealed everything else to Aurelius… "Um… he already knows."

And now it's Aurelius' turn to be caught completely off-guard. "He does?"

"When was the last time you talked to him?"

"Wednesday last week, as usual. That was the happiest I've seen him and, barring the incident with Matheus Schmitt, he seems to have had a great time."

"And he usually tells you everything…"

"Even when I don't even need, or desire, the information…"

"You weren't the one in the same bunk as him."

"Nor was I the one who got inebriated to the point of unconsciousness."  _Wow…_

Guess there really isn't anything the kid doesn't discuss. Though just to test something out, I ask, "Does he tell you about our races?"

"Yes, and while I agree that it's a good source of exercise, and there isn't anything explicitly illegal about the activity, I can't say I approve of it. Yet Dio seems to think that you know what you're doing."

"Well I do."  _Sort of…_  "Anyways, so he's told you about all this but nothing about my background?"

"Only that you shamelessly called yourself a monster, which he doesn't believe."

"Huh… Well it was during that conversation that I explained Central to him. I even showed him some saved footage of my trial runs."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the last part. But mentioned before, I thought Dio was completely ignorant of that fact. I've found that he's usually very bad at masking the truth…"

"You could say that again…" I mutter with a snort. But after that snort, I find the need to know one last thing. "So I reckon that the kid's told you of my habit of hiding this manner of speaking," I say while allowing my voice to revert itself.

"No he hasn't." That confirmation causes me to fall deep into thought, and thankfully, neither Aurelius nor Paylor says anything to hurry me along.

Dio spilled the beans to Aurelius about much of his life as well as a lot of my interactions with him; a lot of said interactions aren't what I would consider to be flattering. That implies that he puts a lot of trust in the shrink; that or he just trusts everyone, which I can also see. Yet he hasn't spilled anything about either Central or my accent, despite the fact that he'd have to know that Aurelius is likely aware of the former and doesn't care about the latter. Now that I think about it, I didn't even tell him not to say anything about Central to anybody, but he's still keeping his mouth shut.

I seriously don't know why the kid holds me in such high esteem, and frankly, it kinda bugs me a bit. However, the point remains, despite his obvious idealism-laden disapproval of some of my actions and thoughts, that he refuses to resent me like the rubes or treat me as an object of derision like my peers; maybe he's just that naive. So I guess it's just as fair that I give him a slight chance as well.

"Alright," I huff, "it ain't like I can promise anything, but I'll hear you all out."

Aurelius and Paylor don't even bother to hide their relief at my words; it's as if they were expecting me to bolt or something; if anything, I'm too tired to flee. So seeing that I'll probably need some more energy for this coming discussion, I grab the nearest cookie — a soft cinnamon-dusted disk with a caramel center — and unceremoniously stuff it down my gullet. Even with the rushed manner than I feed on the snack, the way that the salted caramel coincides with the baked spice-and-sugar-laden dough fills me with an unreasonable amount of ecstasy.

And I can't help but vocalize that: "Hot damn, this is amazing! Tell me that these came from a bakery I could visit."

For whatever reason, a wry smile grows on Paylor's face. "Well, I get these personally shipped to me on a weekly basis. But if you're ever in District Twelve, the bakery isn't too hard to find."

The process that my mind takes to decipher that statement is almost instantaneous and causes me to freeze for a second in reaching for the next cookie. Just a second though as I immediately resume staking my claim on a shortbread cookie shaped into a flower. "Figures," I mutter before taking a bite of the lavender-infused creation. "Oh well; still good."

"I'll be sure to let Peeta know he has another fan."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that." This doesn't change my assessment that Mellark's a batshit-crazy sap who, for all intents and purposes, should've died a long time ago due to being too dumb and pitiful to live. Still it appears that he truly is a master of the bakery; I guess everybody has to be good at least one thing of use.

After sampling one of each cookie — I lost count at eight varieties — I wash the residue down with a tall glass of orange juice before leaning back. "Anyways," I say with a critical eye towards my hosts, "in all honesty, I'm actually a bit curious as to what the big deal is. Even with his obvious physical capabilities, everything I've seen points to the kid being one of the most inoffensive individuals I've met."

"The incident with Schmitt?" asks Aurelius with a raised eyebrow at me.

 _Oh… that…_  "Any reasonable person would have their limits. Hell he should be commended for holding out as long as he did; Schmitt just had the misfortune of Dio being much stronger than he is. Anyways, my point is this: so he was probably raised in a fairly strict household and had tons of combat training. That doesn't necessarily make a person unhinged. And okay, he may have had a close call with what happened at the Nut, but that just mea—… Why are you looking at me like that?"

For some reason, my hosts alternate between staring at me and each other with expressions of sober incredulity.

"Well get to the subject of Dio's training." Aurelius' voice is just as sober as his stare. "But first… he didn't tell you the full story about what happened at the Nut, did he."

"What do you mean, 'full story'? It's seemed pretty clear from his account that he escaped the place when it fell, despite his attempt at downplaying things. How he avoided getting some lasting injuries from that nasty mob is beyond me…"

"It's because he wasn't in the riot…"

Now I really have to scoff at that. "What do you mean he wasn't in the riot? Yeah, I know that the result wasn't as bad as it could have been — I mean, last I checked, a good chunk of those Peacekeepers did survive the encounter with no crippling damage — but the point remains that he'd pretty much had to deal with the crowd if… he… escaped…"  _Oh hell…_

With a grimace, Paylor vocalizes what I have just realized: "Dio didn't escape the Nut during the evacuations. It was not until the expeditionary tours that he was able to leave the place."

And that's when the full picture forms in horrid clarity. "But that means—"

"—since the Nut's fall, he was stuck in there for almost four months."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As tempting as it is to tear down all the relics of the Hunger Games era, some of the stuff would have functional value to it. Just footnote or move the really controversial aspects.


	12. Healthy Upbringings

There's a certain point in which, in the wake of a shocking statement, the following silence can become so palpable it actually causes everything else to stop working. This is one of those times.

It also doesn't last. "I… well then…" That's seriously the only thing I can articulate. To be stuck underground in a broken facility for over several months… I'd probably go crazy after only several days, especially if this was the subsection I'm thinking of.

If I recall correctly informational broadcasts during the whole mission, while the main portion of the Nut itself relied on air being pumped in from the outside, there was a secondary bunker deep within it. That bunker, dubbed Masada, apparently was used for housing VIPs in times of crisis and had its own self-sustaining unit. After the Capitol fell, retaking it was a priority as part of the plan to reclaim the Nut for future use.

"The thing is…" Paylor quietly says as she keys in her console and turns on the TV, "Dio actually played a large part in the operation's success."

* * *

The security footage is of a hallway… though that in itself is a fairly generous term; the tube-like passage is ridiculously narrow and illuminated by dim crimson lighting. At the end of the hall is a circular doorway similar to that found in a vault.

I'm wondering the point of this when a teenage boy shambles into view; it actually takes me a couple seconds to register that this is probably Dio I'm looking at. Key word being "probably" because, while the subject of our conversation is him, the kid here looks nothing like well-groomed and athletic youth I'm used to; hell, he looks more like typical Mutt Food than a Career. Ragged hair reaches gaunt shoulders, and over those shoulders hangs a cadet uniform no longer filled in by its owner; granted, I can tell an attempt was made at keeping that uniform as immaculate as possible.

Even in his weakened — not to mention delirious, from the looks of it — state, it's impossible to not recognize that Dio's nervous and jittery about something; well, at least more than usual. I suspect that the source of the anxiety is the wall console he heads for. Once he reaches the console, he begins working on it while constantly sending furtive glances over his shoulder. The lack of sound keeps me from knowing why, but his furtiveness goes into full-blown panic when the doorway catches his attention. Finally the kid appears finish whatever he was aiming to do judging by the huff of relief he has, but that is replaced with him starting with an expression of intense fear aimed at the other end of the hallway.

In just a matter of seconds, he's shoved out of the way by a much-older man who's in no better state that he's in but certainly more pissed-off; probably doesn't help that right as he's shoved, Dio tears the console off the wall. The man looks at the broken device for a while before snarling in probable disgust and rounding on Dio to yell at him. For whatever reason, the kid pleads with the man about something, gesturing to the doorway, the console, and the other end of the hall in the process.

Well, whatever he said doesn't seem to have an impact as the man — no, the asshole — proceeds to take the rifle he's carrying and slam the butt of it into the left side of the kid's face. Dio, who didn't even try to defend himself when he was advanced upon, falls to the ground but isn't rendered completely unconscious judging by the way he curls into a ball and wraps his arms protectively around his head. Though the asshole has a gun in his hands, he doesn't shoot the curled form before him; instead, he begins kicking the crap out of the kid.

I don't know if the intruders were able to get through sneakily, or that the asshole was being too much of an asshole to hear them, but somehow he doesn't notice that the door had swung open to reveal a group of gas-masked soldiers. The moment he does notice and aim's the gun at them, it's too late and he's immediately taken out.

The soldiers follow up by entering to engage a small contingent of Peacekeepers that attempt to rebel the invasion. After that brief-but-violent skirmish though, the lead soldier doesn't follow the rest of his squad; rather he motions them onward and remains behind to stare at Dio, who's still conscious enough to weakly cringe away as if in fear that the soldier will strike him down as well.

Suffice to say, that doesn't happen. Instead, after kneeling down and probably saying something placating, the soldier takes his gasmask off before gently picking up the-now-masked Dio to carry right out the doorway.

* * *

"We later learned that those holed up in the facility put in a failsafe in the event of a breach," Paylor explains, "Initially it was a set of explosives right outside the door to eliminate anybody besieging them and give the people inside a warning to react accordingly. However, a couple months in, they ended up bulking up the contingency plan. On top of the explosives, the whole facility would be filled with nerve gas."

"Better to die, and take everybody else with them, than be taken, huh?" I mutter. "And I take it that the console controlled said failsafe."

"Yes. Because it was taken out, our forces were able to secure the facility with minimal casualties on either side, which was probably helped by most there being civilians that were too weakened to retaliate."

"All because the kid decided to defect…"

Aurelius actually chuckles at that. "Hardly. He was plenty scared of rebels and the new government when we found him; he just didn't want everybody to die, and we got lucky he did what he did when he did it."

I can't help but echo the shrink's chuckle. "I can actually believe that. There's one thing I  _am_  having trouble believing," I say while pointing to the paused image. "Is that  _Gale Hawthorne_?" I mean, I know the guy mellowed out by now, but I'm still having trouble reconciling this scene with him ranting at the top of lungs about how the people in the Nut deserved what came to them.

This time, it's Paylor's turn to chuckle. "We're at a loss as much as you. I don't know what exactly happened down there, but whatever it was, I can't exactly say I'm displeased at the final result.

"In fact, Gale's officially Dio's legal guardian; though the Hawthorne family as a whole adopted him. Gale was also the one who first recommended that Dio attend this program, even before the selection process started."

Huh. Well, still color me surprised. "What about any living relatives?"

The president lets out a long puff of air. "As you know, his mother was the Generalissimus and in charge the holed-up group until the end; before our forces could get to her though, she ate her gun. As for his father… well, you just saw him."

 _What._  "What," I growl slowly, not believing what I just heard.

"Yeah…" she confirms the unspoken part of my question with a grimace.

I'm at a loss to comprehend this bit of news. "I mean, the kid pretty much told me his parents were a bit hard on him. He even said that—"

"—they were justified in their actions?" Aurelius finishes with a shake of his head and a disgusted tone.

"Yeah! There's a  _slight_  difference between being a bit hard on your son and trying to  _kill_  him. I… this…"  _I_  don't even know what the scrambled sounds that I'm emitting are supposed to mean; my thought process is too busy trying to comprehend this.

"Also, from what I've been told, while this incident was undoubtedly the worst, it wasn't the first… from either parent."

Not wanting to dwell on that, I add, "Okay what about siblings? I know that he apparently had at least two sisters."

The grimace doesn't drop from Paylor's face. "It's speculation at this point due to very little… evidence, but there's a good chance that the younger sister killed the eldest one."

I don't even bother deigning that with a verbal response but instead motion for the president to continue.

"We know that Domitia Cohen, the elder sibling, was one of Commander Lyme's assistants. And I take it you heard what happened to District Two's Justice Building."

"Yeah, it got blown up, supposedly by some suicide bomb-oh.  _Oh…_ "

"Well, we don't have any clear footage, but what we recovered matches the description of Galeria, the youngest sibling."

"And from what we have gleaned from records and Dio's own statements," Aurelius adds with a shake of the head, "Galeria was extremely fanatical to the Capitol's cause."

Even though I'm not ignorant of the subject of abuse and dysfunctional families — granted, there's screwy… and then there's  _screwy_ ; guess which one Dio's family falls under — the whole idea that one's parents can be anything but loving is still something I can't wrap my head around. Anyways there's still the matter at hand: "Alrighty then; moving on… So we know that the kid probably went through a pretty traumatic experience. So what?" When I see Aurelius looking ready to yell at me, I quickly add, "Okay, poor choice of words. What I'm meaning to say is that while PTSD undoubtedly sucks a great deal, most guys are able to live with it without turning into raging maniacs. And we're talking about Dio here; the kid's about as violent as a baby manatee."

"Manatee?" Both of my hosts look equally perplexed as to what the term even is.

After a pause where I bring up some vids of the creatures to show my now-highly-amused hosts — Paylor actually begins  _cooing_  at scenes of them rolling around — we get right back to business.

"Well… thank you for the… enlightening footage…" Aurelius gruffly says. "And I thank you for clarifying. As for your question… you of course know that Dio had both Career and Peacekeeper training, right?"

"Yeah. He was a busy guy."

"Now do you know what was the average pre-war age to enlist in the Peacekeeper Corps?"

"Fifteen usually, unless they're a Career, though fourteen's not uncommon."

The shrink looks a bit startled that I'm able to recall that so quickly but recovers. "Now do the math for Dio and see what the issue is here."

 _What does he mean "do the math"? Is he talking about the kid's a— oh shit…_  "How old was he upon enlisting?"

"Twelve."

"Tha-that's insane! Yeah I know that his parents were motivated nutballs with influence, but that's still too early. What possessed them to do this?

"Well, remember what happened with the Games?"

"Yeah yeah… they were prepping for the impending Rebellion. But you're saying that he was enlisted  _before_. I also reckon they didn't do the same thing with his sisters."

Both shake their heads. "No," Aurelius confirms, "they didn't."

"Then why?"

* * *

Dio isn't even in his teens. At first he seems to be the sole occupant of the room, though the anticipatory way in which he looks past the camera hints that there's someone behind it. You'd think that he were simply in a regular examination room, yet the table he's seated at doesn't contain some written test; it contains a dissembled assault rifle.

In due time, a cool authoritative voice behind the camera says, "You may begin."

It's almost hard to tell, but the kid starts right when the commencing sentence ends; not as the last syllable is uttered or a second after, but right when there could be a period. The pieces of the gun are assembled in the whir of motion to the point that it's almost impossible to follow the path of his hands, and before I know it, he's finished and safety checking the gun.

As he sets the gun down on the table in a manner of presentation, he looks up with thinly-disguised anticipation and hope. "Did I do good, sir?"

"I believe you can be a bit faster. Let's try this again."

There's no mistaking the look of disappointment that crosses the kid's face, but he still nods obediently. "Yes sir."

~oOo~

The series of footage shown must be chronological, as he's about the same age here; yet he's clearly starting to gain muscle mass on his small frame.

Unlike the previous footage, the room he's now in is filled with other children and teens exercising or sparring in the background. Most of the floor is a padded surface and various racks containing assorted weaponry can be seen set at even intervals throughout the room.

Dio currently carries a short sword; however, he doesn't face off against anyone but is rather standing in the middle of the mat with some of his fellow Careers watching from the sidelines. Once the signal is made, the kid starts almost what looks like a battle with an unseen enemy. Despite the sword looking almost comically-oversized on him, and despite visibly stumbling at first, Dio soon wields the blade with near-fluid ease.

~oOo~

He's back at the gun station, though this time, there a set of targets on the wall behind him. Instead of an assault rifle, however, the components before him belong to a handgun.

Like before though, it's not until Dio's told that he assembles all the pieces together. Except that this time, he follows up with that by removing the mag, loading it, and whipping around to empty the gun at the targets; one bullet per each target.

From the indicators, he's considerably off at the first shot; however, his accuracy increases with each consecutive one, despite the recoil probably having to be taken into consideration.

~oOo~

By now, the kid's already starting to gain some height and has filled on considerably. Instead of a sword, he wields a long chain with a weighted tip at the end. A row of other various melee and ranged weapons lays before him in a row.

This time when he starts, that chain may as well be an extension to his body as he attacks the moving targets — each a glowing sphere probably half-a-foot in diameter — projected around him in either static or dynamic states.

After he gets done with that, Dio calmly walks over to the rows of weapons, sets the chain in its place, picks up what looks like a club, and waits to start again.

~oOo~

There's no neatly-arranged set before Dio in this session. Instead, it seems to be a jumbled pile of various firearms parts. However, for whatever reason, the kid doesn't look dismayed at what's before him. In fact, he actually looks eerily impassive and detached.

And like before, he doesn't hesitate to tackle the problem before him. However instead of going about it head-on, he starts by assorting the pieces by type of component. Once he finished with that, nothing stops him from turning into a one-kid assembly plant.

Before long there's a nice set of completed guns, each of which he has already fired at a set of targets, laid out before him… except for one pile of assembled parts.

"Care to tell me why you haven't assembled that last piece, Cohen?" the voice-behind-the-camera asks.

Instead of the anxious voice I heard at the beginning, this time, the kid speaks with one that's just as impassive as his expression. "Sir, there's a faulty pin. I could assemble the gun if you so desire, but it'd be useless."

"Hmph… very well then. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

It goes on like that. There's also stuff dealing with handling various terrain, random survival skills, memorizing key political figures…

Just halfway through all this footage of training and exercise… and more training, the hairs on the back of my neck raise as the realization about my roommate surfaces in my mind.

Dio wasn't raised to be a Career; he wasn't raised to be a Peacekeeper.

He was raised to be a damn weapon.

"You've probably noticed," Aurelius explains after the last of the footage ends, "that while Dio's physical condition is exemplary, that's probably not his most desirable attribute here. I'll admit that I'm actually using my appointments with him to attempt to try and figure him out."

The puzzles, his repair skills, the fact that he was able to learn fairly quickly in terms of following me through the city… to place that rapid problem solving skill in a combat scenario…

"He'd be unstoppable."

"Not quite," the shrink counters.

"What do you mean? Look at him; the kid puts machines to shame."

"Yes, we're aware of that. Though while it's true that he learns quickly and effectively, he's not as proficient in a single skillset as someone who's a specialist. He's also not as proficient at abstract concepts or predicting problems; just responding to them."

"That doesn't matter if he's able to adapt as rapidly as this implies."

"Possibly. But there's another factor," he says while bringing the footage back up again to speed through it. "Tell me, what is the one constant that you see with his training?"

I don't know what the shrink is getting at, but I entertain his notions. All I see is the kid going through the motions, hitting various targets, stuff like… that…

Then, when I begin to take my own training into account, it dawns and clicks into place. "All of the targets… none of them are in human form. Even the firearm targets don't have any people drawn on them. They're all just abstract shapes."

Aurelius give me an appreciative nod. "Correct. Now watch these:"

This time, the footage shown consists of Dio being presented with human-shaped dummies, human-caricatured targets, and human projections to beset him. The result is the same each time: the kid seizes up.

And now I get what he meant about the whole "Wolf Pup" thing.

"Suffice to say, those in charge were not happy about this."

"His parents you mean…" I mutter. No parent should treat their child like this.

Aurelius gives a small nod. "We're still trying to figure out the full extent of what was attempted, but we know that there have been at least a couple… methods to try and 'fix' him."

I really don't like the sound of that. "Such as…"

* * *

Dio's probably twelve or thirteen here, and he's still in the examination room; however, there are no weapons or weapon components to be seen.

"I have to say, Cohen, you have progressed mightily well," says the man-behind-the-camera. "In due time, you'll be well-poised to bring honor to us all."

Despite the praise, the kid remains fairly dispassionate. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your confidence."

"In fact, you done well enough that I think you deserve a gift."

"A gift, sir?"

"Indeed."

At some unseen command, a guard walks over to hand Dio a large box. The moment the kid opens the box, his face lights up, and the first smile I've seen from him in all the shown footage forms. I wouldn't expect anything less, as it turns out that the gift is a pudgy and squirming puppy.

Dio holds the fluffy canine close to himself as he looks up with palpable joy. "Thank you, sir. She's beautiful."

"Mmhm… Though I'm surprised you're thanking me already when I haven't even given you your gift yet."

"You haven't?" the kid asks absentmindedly as he pets the puppy.

"Actually, I'm giving you the opportunity to get the gift for yourself."

"What gift is that, sir?"

"Why, go onto the next stage, of course. I mean, you do wish to progress on, don't you?"

I didn't think the kid could be more elated; I'm quickly proven wrong. "Oh, yes, sir! That would be wonderful, sir."

"Excellent. I knew you would agree. Now with that in mind…

"Kill it."

And just with those two cold words, Dio's elation dissipates. "What?"

"You heard me: kill that dog in your hands."

"But why… sir?" As the kid asks that, his hold around the puppy shifts to a more protective one.

A slight tut comes from behind the camera. "Oh dear… how can you expect to bring honor to us when you can't dispose of a single mongrel? This is the whole part of moving to the next stage."

"No. Th-there has to be another way, sir."

"I'm afraid there isn't. Now, there's a station over there where you'll have various tools at your disposal. You can eliminate the creature anyway you wish; there are even some quick and painless options if that's what you're concerned about."

"No." At the repeated word, I now both see and hear conviction from Dio. In the wake of that, the whole room goes silent and freezes; even the puppy seems to cease her wriggling and whimpering if but for a second.

After the long pause, the man-behind-the-camera asks, "Is that really your wish?"

"Yes, sir."

Another pause, then a sigh. "And we were having so much progress …" Another sigh. "Very well."

Before Dio knows what's happening, a guard comes over to restrain him as another plucks the puppy out of his grasp to bring her over to behind the camera.

"Wh-what are you doing, sir?"

There's that damn tut again. "You had a very simple task. You could have ended it mercifully. Now you have to watch as I do it the hard way."

"No, please. I'll do it; I'll do what you want. I'll… I'll kill… Just please don't hurt her."

"That's now how things work. You had your chance; you can't back out now." From the sound and the orange glow, it seems like a blowtorch is being turned on.

By now, the kid is full on sobbing. "Please… let her go…"

It's almost enough to drown out the sounds of the puppy's whimpers. Almost.

* * *

_I can't listen to this…_  "Shut it off."

While drawn in his expression — he had to have seen this before — Aurelius looks at me curiously. "It's not finished yet."

"I don't care," I growl. "Shut it off. Or at least mute the damn thi—"

I can't even finish my sentence when a scream interrupts me.

* * *

"I SAID LET HER GO!"

It's hard to tell what happened. One moment, there's the sobbing wreck that's Dio being restrained; the next, the guard that was restraining him is reeling back with a bloodied nose as the kid launches himself over the table.

Whatever's happening behind the camera… sounds pretty damn violent. Between the sounds of struggle, muffled calls for the guards to subdue Dio interrupted by hefty-sounding hits, and the barking of the puppy, the whole thing's a mess.

Finally what sounds like a taser is fired and the sounds of struggling ceases. That's followed by the guards carrying Dio's unconscious form out of the room.

* * *

Of course, after all that, the only thing I can ask is, "What happened to the puppy?"

The two look at each other before Aurelius says, "Uh, we don't know. It—"

"She. The kid was right in determining the gender."

"Okay,  _she_  was most likely used as orientation for another Career."

I have to keep down the bile at that. I won't deny that there's a similar practice back in Central, but we slaughter an animal that can actually be utilized later and in a humane manner, not just to show we can kill something else; we also don't punish a person who backs out with senseless displays of cruelty. However, I suspect that voicing this may cause my hosts to view me as "dissonant" or some other crap.

So instead I ask, "And I take it that this was one of several methods they to instill the 'killer instinct'."

"Yes. There are several other techniques I've seen; none of them I would recommend putting in our current military. There could have even been more, but I have not found anything of note yet, nor has Dio been exactly forthcoming."

"And you're worried that something's been knocked loose in that noggin of his."

Aurelius sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'd rather not refer to it in that matter, but you're not far off the mark. I have not found anything out of the ordinary besides the average signs of PTSD, as well as the existing issues dealing with his self-esteem and self-confidence. But I'd rather be on the safe and cautious side, if only for his own sake.

"Also, there's no denying what we saw when he reacted at the end of the last footage. And you've seen first-hand what happened over a week ago."

Yeah… that… Honestly, I thought it was a good thing to see; it meant that he had some backbone after all and was capable of putting that strength to good use. But now…

 _Also…_  "Um… speaking of last week…"

Maybe it's the way I phrased things, but Aurelius suddenly looks extremely alert. "Yes, what is it?"

"Did the kid ever tell you the name of the girl he hooked up with?"

"He just called her 'Jesse'. Why, is something the matter?"

"Yeah… what if I were to tell you that her last name is 'Dubois'?"

Judging by the way the color drains from the faces of my two hosts, they know the bad news that's on the heels of that pronouncement. And so I proceed to tell them the conversation on the dock earlier as well as the reason she hooked up with Dio in the first place; also why I currently look the way I do, in case they care.

By the time I'm finished, Paylor is massaging her temples and Aurelius actually lets off a string of surprisingly explicit profanity, at which I can only nod in agreement. When he finally cools off, the shrink says, "Thank you for telling me this in advance. If I could, I'd reschedule for today, but I already have some prior commitments. Just please look after him until tomorrow."

"Already planned on it," I say before another topic comes to mind. "I'd just like to know, just out of curiosity, did the kid actually have  _any_  friends while growing up?"

It turns out that he actually had several, and besides his own personal accounts, that fact is corroborated by various accounts… mostly disciplinary. However… there's a reason the term is "had"… no exceptions.

Cassius Thomason. Helped Dio through his first couple years of the Career academy before finally volunteering in the Seventy-Third Games. I actually remember seeing him; the guy was a favorite for a while due to his fighting and leadership skills, and he was notable for playing nice with the non-Career allies in the pack. That's not why I remember him though. What I distinctly remember is the big Career favorite slipping on a patch of algae, cracking his head open on a partially-submerged rock, and drowning; very anticlimactic… almost embarrassingly so. I probably shouldn't tell my hosts that I laughed when it happened.

Janus Singer and Mica Bradshaw. Both served as emotional support for the kid while he was in Peacekeeper training and even objected to him being there on account of his age; right after their complaints, both were reassigned. Bradshaw was killed in action in Eleven while Singer succumbed, reportedly due to being refused treatment, to wounds sustained in the Capitol.

Scipio Breda. Knew Dio for a while due to their parents being in the same quarrying unit. Joined the rebels and was killed in action during the Two campaign.

Virgil Anton. Like Thomason, he was with Dio from the beginning and known for getting into fights with other academy members whenever they harassed the kid. Actually was under suspicion for seditious thoughts, though he was still considered to be a major candidate of volunteering until the… slight change in plans. Disappeared the same time as the rest of the Career kids.

I swear, it's as if the kid's early life was some screenplay written by a talentless hack with an obsession towards melodrama.

"By the way, if you don't mind the tangent, did you ever figure out what happened to the Careers?"

If for a second, Paylor almost looks several decades older. "No we haven't. We know the Exiles didn't take them; in fact, they want them found as much as we do and have lending assistance. But so far… nothing."

"Huh… Anyways… how about after the war?"

Finally both of them brighten up, and Aurelius says "Last I checked, besides this program, his current household and family is a loving one. Though…" he adds with a frown, "I still can't figure out why he especially looks up to you."

 _Gee… thanks._  Funnily enough, however… "I dunno either," I concede with a shrug.

"I will say that, in the end, only things that matters is that he just does. That's why having you on board is as important as it is."

"Yeah… about that…"

The two stiffen a bit in probable anticipation of bad news as I say to Paylor, "Earlier, you asked me what I would have done if you told me the kid's state of being at the very beginning."

She eyes me cautiously. "I take it you have an answer to that."

"Yep. Reckon I would have told you to go eat a bag of unwashed dicks, followed by me hopping on the next train back to West City."

I seem to have touched another nerve of the shrink with that statement. However, Paylor is not the slightest bit perturbed but rather gets right to the point: "What about now?"

"Can I least do the former, ma'am?"

It's obvious that the President gets my point, judging by the warm smile that spreads on her face. "No, you may not."

I just shrug with a smirk. "Ah well, it couldn't hurt to ask. At least you ain't going to feed me to my own mutts for even thinking of voicing such things." That actually happened to one of the idiots in the Capitol after he questioned Snow about something.

"No… but that doesn't mean I can't use my imagination. And I'd be lying if I said there wouldn't be something quite cathartic about it."  _Wha-what did she just imply?_

I assure you that the sound I make in response is  _not_  like I'm being strangled.

Taking advantage of my lack of a verbal output, Paylor continues to state, "Speaking of mutts, I'd like to let you know that we're allowing Central to restart their mutt program. Despite my reservations, Beetee and Porus convinced me that they are important for us to have as an edge in national defense due to our comparative weakness is other areas. So I guess that once you are done with this program, you can go back to doing what you do best." It's pretty much impossible miss the part where she wants me to stick through this first. "I hope you'll at least find that to be good news."

Unfortunately, I'm unable to convey my pleasure at the news due to my current inability to articulate a coherent verbal response.

"Oh, and I would like you to give these to your roommate," she adds while take a small paper bag out and loading it with cookies before handing it over to me; the bag has to be physically placed in my hand for me to register it.

By the time Jenson comes to pick me up, I'm still sputtering and can only give a small nod to my hosts — they certainly are looking rather smug right now — as we part ways.

It's not until we're at the rotunda when I regain my voice and whirl around to yell, "You know what, ma'am? I didn't even vote for you!"

_Yeah! Sure showed her…_

~oOo~

"So what is it that you want to show me?" Dio asks.

"You'll see…"

"Okay…"

I can tell that the kid is nervous. In all honesty, most people who are new to the area are initially nervous if they wander into District Town, especially on foot, and I'm not one to blame them; the area's not exactly known for being affluent… or well-policed. But with an open mind, and no small amount of vigilance, visiting can actually be quite a rewarding experience.

And since we have nothing to do after class, I consider it best that we get this foray done as soon as possible ever since Dio confirmed to me that there aren't really any plans that he or his visitors have for Family Day. Helps that it's actually a pretty nice day for a walk.

It'd be nicer if there was actually some kind of conversational engagement from the kid other than the occasional short query as to what we're doing. Even after I gave him the cookies during class, he's been a bit on the quiet and sullen side.

A few minutes pass, when I barely hear a soft, "Ned?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you pity me?"

 _You've got to be kidding…_  The sentence is barely finished before something snaps and I round on him with a snarl. "Listen here, kid: I don't know how many variations of this conversation you're going to try and initiate, but my tolerance for them is about the about the same throughout; I.E. it's non-existent. However, just in case you haven't got the message, let me spell it out for you:

"I. Don't. Do. Pity." Each word I punctuate with a prod at Dio's sternum, which causes him to take a couple steps back with a wide-eyed look that seems to border on fear; he'll get over it, and it's better for him to remain too occupied fearing me to wallow in self-loathing. "I don't give pity; I don't ask for it. Any case attributed to pity I can and will easily substitute with contempt, and believe it when I say that you'll know if I feel any sort of contempt towards you. Is that clear?"

I'm answered with a quick nod, to which I reply, "Good. I don't even know why you'd ask such a ridiculous question…" Not even a second passes after I mutter that when realization hits, and my vision begins to cloud. "This is about what that poisonous whore said, isn't it. ISN'T IT?"

"N-Ned…" That pitiful attempt at placation isn't helping my demeanor at all.

"I KNEW IT! I fucking knew it! You seriously believe that drivel, don't you. Do you believe what she says just because she allowed you to get in the sack with her?"

I might as well have punched the kid in the face judging by the way he reels back. "No! No, I—"

However, I'm too steamed right now to see-straight, much less care. "Or is it simply that you'll believe anything anyone tells you? No matter how false… no matter how contradictory or destructive." I can't help but shake my head as a harsh laugh bubbles up from my throat at this absurdity. "This… this is rich. I could probably tell you that we're silicon-based lifeforms; that down is up; it doesn't matter what's said because you'd lap it all right up. It's already clear that you've taken as truth something no sane man would ev—"

"WELL I'M  _NOT_  SANE!" With that screamed statement, it might as well be a bucket of ice splashed into my face, and my vision clears to show me that Dio's no longer standing in front of me; instead he's seated on the curb with his knees to his chest and his face cradled in his hands. "I'm not sane…"

To think that earlier today, I had just all but promised the President of Panem that'd I'd look after the kid.  _Great job with that so far._

"Damn it all…" I mutter as I crouch down in front of him to lay a hand on his shoulder; the fact that he initially flinches and cringes away sends a rare bout of shame coursing through me. So I decide on saying something that's even rarer:

"Look, Dio… I'm ss… well, um… I'm sor-er… I-ah… heh…"  _Dammit, it shouldn't be this hard to say one measly two-syllable word._  "I'm sorry!"  _There!_

If it weren't for the situation that caused me to say that, or the tears staining Dio's face when he looks up at me, I probably would've found his startled and flabbergasted expression downright hilarious. "Bwauh?" Okay, it's still a bit amusing.

"I was out of line; not just in what I said but how I said it. By all rights and purposes, you should hate me for this, and I won't hold it against you." The kid doesn't respond but just still stares at me in dumbfounded shock; after a few moments of this, I actually begin to get a bit antsy. "Okay, say  _something_ … anything. Just  _please_  don't make me repeat myself."

Funnily enough, I'm not the least bit surprised when the first words he thickly mumbles are, "It's alright…"

"No…" I sigh with a shake of the head, "it's not."  _This kid…_  At a certain point, I don't know whether he's actually this sincerely forgiving, just a pathetic doormat, or somewhere in between.

Anyways, I'm just as unsurprised when he asks, "You're not mad at me?"

It's still befuddling though. "Why would I be…" Fortunately I manage to stop myself from starting what would probably be another vicious tirade; and take a few stabilizing breaths to regain my bearings. "Oh I'm mad; I'm pretty fucking pissed right now. But ain't you I'm angry at.

"Look… do you trust me?"

"Yes."  _Wow..._  Even after this, there's still no hesitation from him.

It makes me give a small humorless chuckle. "Well you shouldn't, but that ain't the point.

"Remember how I told you that there are real monsters out there, myself included? Ah ah! let me finish," I lightly admonish when it becomes clear that the kid's about to object. "Well, Jesse Dubois… is one of those monsters. And you have to believe me when I say that you have  _no idea_  what she's capable of. Hell I myself probably don't know the full extent… but I know more than enough."

"But what she said… it felt…"

"So convincing?" At his affirmation, I let out a sigh. "Because she  _is_  very convincing; deceit is second nature to her. That's why, if you trust me as much as you claim, at the very least take this advice to heart: stay as far away from her as possible. And if you somehow find yourself near her and can't escape, be careful and trust nothing she says. You must never,  _ever_ , let her get a grip on you.

"Your mind is your own. You don't let anybody, or anything, change that."

"Not even you?" That he even has to ask baffles me.

" _Especially_  not me." I move to stand back up. "Alright, are we good to go, or do you want to head on back to the dorm? It's your choice."

"We're good." However, Dio doesn't move from his spot but instead starts fidgeting. "Um, Ned… I need to tell you something…"

"What is it?"

"Whenever I go out for my Wednesday appointments… it's… it's to see a therapist."

I almost forget that this is supposed to be news to me but still manage to feign some ignorance. "You seem to be in tip-top physical condition. I never took you for the type that needed to be looked at."

"Um… it's not that kind of therapy."

Now insert some faux surprise in there. "Oh… uh… I take it this is what that whole 'not sane' thing was about?" When he nods his head and looks at me with no small amount of trepidation, I take the time to give an impression of mulling that over in my head before shrugging with a chirp: "Okay."

There's that flabbergasted look again. "'Okay'?"

"Yeah… 'Okay'. What, did you expect me to start flipping my shit and shit? Because I ain't really in the mood for it right now."  _That, and I already got done freaking out earlier._  In all honesty, I'm just glad that is out of the way so I won't have to beat around the bush about it.

"But this doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it? Whatever you have, it's either pretty harmless or you got it under control. So no worries here. Besides," I add, "the Star-Crossed Loonies ain't exactly considered the paragons of sanity, yet that hasn't stopped the nation from still fawning over them."

"It's not nice to call them that…" Despite the admonishment, and if I didn't know any better, I'd swear that a ghost of a smile appears on the kid's face.

"So I've been told." Once it clear that's out of the way, I offer a hand to him. "So  _now_  are we good to go?"

Dio looks at the hand for a few moments before finally taking. "Yea—"

He doesn't get to finish what he says as the moment he stands back up, I envelope him in a hug, which after a couple moments of probable shock he reciprocates. "Again… I'm… well you get the picture."

"It's— I forgive you…" At least he's not crying anymore.

"Just don't start expecting me to dole out hugs like they are the newest fad."

This time, I actually hear a warm chuckle from him. "It wouldn't suit you."

"I reckon it wouldn't," I muse. "Kid?"

"Huh?"

"It'd be nice to breathe regularly…" Seriously, my voice is starting to gain a wheezing quality to it, and I think my spine just popped.

Just as expected, the kid immediately breaks off and begins fretting over me. And just as expected, I bat away his concern.

We don't immediately recommence heading over to our destination but instead stop at a nearby café so to give the kid some time to freshen and fuel up; in other words, so he no longer looks like an utter wreck. And by the time we've finished our lunch — a Nine specialty consisting of corned beef, picked cabbage, cheese and a sweet sauce grilled between slices of rye bread — it's impossible to tell that, just a half-an-hour earlier, Dio looked like he'd just waken up in an onion factory; I'd hate for him to meet anybody looking like that.

Just as well considering that we barely walk a block from the café when a familiar voice calls out:

"Well if it ain't the Psychotic Ginger!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you're thinking of it, the whole "killing a puppy" is not based on that circulated story about Spartans/SS/SpecOps/*insert big badass unit here* raising a puppy then drowning it. What it is based on is the practice of desensitization utilization by factions to foster child soldiers, or the natural progression of serial killers.  
> And yes, the acclimation training would ultimately involve human subjects; likely either convicts or vagrants.
> 
> Granted, I'm not equating Careers to serial killers, but the fact remains that for them to actually display excitement in hunting kids hints at the need for desensitization in the first place. Yes, this includes beloved characters like Annie and Finnick; more likely than not, they were raised as Careers as much as Cato or Cashmere.
> 
> If you want a more in-depth account of Dio's rescue, check out "The High Road". Fourth chapter of "Seeds of Panem" takes place within this chapter.


	13. Tattooed Hillbilly Freaks

A grin forms as I whirl to face the familiar voice with a holler:

"If it ain't the Bastard!" Upon seeing the company with him, I then add, "And he's brought the Betrothed, the Bi-astard with Boobs, and… Brue."

In response, Joe flips me off, Lucy sighs and rolls her eyes as she puffs on that damn cig of hers, and Brue's too busy eating a sandwich to reply and settles for a short nod.

However, the original source of the salutations responds by rushing forward to take the proper course of action: clasp right hands in an almost metacarpus-breaking fashion, simultaneously pull our arms to our own chest while still maintaining firm grip, allow chests to hit with a resounding thud, use our left hand to hit each other on the back hard enough to cause our lungs to expel a small amount of air, add two more hits, and break off contact. A simple and straightforward greeting.

"Seriously didn't expect to run into you all here!" I remark as I bat away the hand Luce uses to tousle my hair.

"What can I say; we're just full of surprises. Fact." However, it's not long before he frowns while looking me over. "Though you're having some surprises of your own."

"Ain't nothing," I object when I see the Corpsman's hand gravitating towards the mini aid kit secured to his belt. "I already had it checked out at the hospital."

"… If you say so…" That's when he looks over my shoulder and notices the kid fidgeting behind me; he immediately follows upon his observation by perking up like a dog with a ball. "New guy! Hi, new guy!"

The only response Dio gives is a nervous wave, forcing me to take the initiative and introduce him: "Everybody, this is Dio. He's my… roommate—"

"Hi, Dio!" As he barks out the amended version of his previous greeting, the wave Luce returns is a bit more energetic and all over the place. Again, it's easy to forget this guy's actual capabilities — hell, it's easy to wonder how he's still alive — and, despite the usual set of disagreements between me and his sister, I don't blame her for looking ready to throttle him at this moment.

I'm about to start introducing the crew, but that's put on hold by focused way Dio stares at Luce's dogtags, which must have been jostled out into view during our greeting. The Corpsman notices and holds them out, which in tun causes the kid to widen his eyes and exclaim, "You… you're Lucius Stone!"

"Um… that's what it says," the Corpsman quips with a patient smile.

"You know this moron?" I ask in surprise, ignoring Luce's yelp of indignation.

The kid just looks on in awe and almost seems to be standing at attention. "He of the Lion's Blood is the Corsairsbane and the Breaker of Camp Victory." Oh… right; I forget that the Corpsman gained a bit of a positive reputation in Two right after the Capitol's fall, despite the many Peacekeepers he killed during the Battle of the Hangar.

Frankly though, it's a bit hard to reconcile Luce, of all people, as being the subject of Dio's flowery — Seriously, who talks like that? — statement of reverence. I'm not the only one, judging by the small frown that forms on the Corpsman face, and for some reason I swear that I hear him mutter, "Dang it, Mark-Mark…" Suddenly, he tilts his head to one side with narrowed eyes to scrutinize the kid. "Hey,  _have_  we met before?"

Confusion settles on my roommate's features as he shakes his head. "No, sir… I don't think so?"

I can tell that Dio's sincere, but for some reason Luce remains unconvinced until he gives a shrug. "Probably just one of those faces." Thing is, I know that that the Corpsman is just as terrible of a liar as the kid. However, despite how clear it is that he's holding something back, I suspect that the subject is something which shouldn't be brought up in public especially since Dio seems to be placated by Luce's dismissal. In any case, with a snap of the finger and an expression of reached epiphany, a grin reappears as he asks, "You ain't by any chance Gale's little bro, are you?"

The kid seems completely taken aback by the Corpsman's query. "How'd you know?"

"Oh, he's mentioned you by name a few times. Last we talked, he was waxing proud about you getting into the PRO program."

At this point, Dio brightens up and asks with a hopeful smile, "Really?"

"Yep. So that, and the fact that it's rare for this little curmudgeon—"

"Hey!" I bark while trying squirm out of the sudden headlock and ensuing noogie the Corpsman's giving me.

"— to have company with him, is good enough of a reference for me," he states as he extends his free hand out in an offer to shake. "So call me 'Luce'."

Only a few brief moments pass before the kid eagerly takes the offer. "Thank you sir—I mean Luce."

The Corpsman looks down at me with a mixture of equal-parts good-natured amusement and slight bemusement. "Is he always so formal?"

"Oh, you have no idea…" I gasp in my attempt to break free. I don't get the chance as Luce immediately uses the hand he's shaking Dio's with to yank the kid forward and envelop him in a one-armed hug, smothering me in the process.

After he eventually releases the both of us, I compose myself and prepare to introduce everybody else; however I don't get the chance. Because it's a bit hard to talk when a jewelry-adorned hand clamps down on your face; despite my muffled squawks of protest, it pushes me back at arms-length from its owner.

"Before Ned here says something he may regret, I think I should do the talking," a dry and decidedly female voice declares.  _Bitch…_  "First off, good to meet you, Dio; I'm Lucy. If you haven't figured it out by my original name, Luce is my brother… my oh-so-special brother…"

"That's right!" her brother pipes up. "Fact."

"Shocking, ain't it? Even I wonder how we share the same blood." I can just feel the disdain, and an accompanying minty vapor cloud, washing over me. "Anyways, the grumpy mute with the collar is Joseph — he's my not-so-soon-to-be brother-in-law — and the blank in the machine-infested suit is Brutus, probably my and Luce's best friend ever since we first moved to Central."

As both Joe and Brue simply respond by stating that the monosyllabic versions of their names are satisfactory, I finally escape Lucy's grasp and glare at her. "What are you doing here? Don't you have some poor schmuck to seduce and devourer?"

"I don't seduce." Okay, I'll concede to that point: Lucy Stone doesn't seduce. The only thing she has to do is to go up to someone and ask if they want to fuck, and more often than not they accept. Somehow she has some sort of internal sensor that can detect whether someone is in rut, of compatible orientation — she was actually the first person to pin me as an ace even before I considered it — and available. Also, I'll give credit where it's due: she tends to state upfront to not make things anything more than they are, and nothing's weird afterwards for most people. "Don't you have a bar to be at to replace your plasma with ethanol?"

She's still a bitch.

A retort begins forming about how I'm not the one replacing the oxygen in my lungs with herbal aerosol — disgusting habit — but I'm interrupted by an arm draping across my shoulders to pull me in close to its owner; I can see that the same thing is happening to Lucy, who chews at her cig in bemusement.

"Alrighty then…" Brue states with that ever-present calm of his. "Now that introductions have been made, how about we all go on our merry way before more than one person does something they might regret."

"The hell you t̢͢͢-t̡̢-̴̢t̴-t͏alking about?" Joe counters with a wide toothy grin; the grin doesn't last long when he notices how his collar is functioning. "I want to w̷̡͘-̴͘w͡-w̸̢ątch this."  _Of course you would._

However, even though I'd normally satisfy the engineer's wishes, it's a bit hard to argue with Brue, as unassuming as he may be, when a couple mechanical centipedes start crawling all over me; so suffice to say, Lucy and I stand down. As we do, the operative gives us both a bland smile before recalling his creations and explaining, "Luce is bringing Lucy here to get her a dress in preparation for the gala."

"It's sort of a birthday present for her," Luce adds.

The moment he hears that, Dio looks at Lucy and pipes, "Happy birthday."

"Thanks," she acknowledges in response and… is that actual warm gratitude I hear?

Shrugging that idea away, I tell the group, "Funnily enough, I think we're headed to the same place. Dio here is going to be attending as well, so he's going to need a suit of his own."

"What?" My roommate looks absolutely startled when he turns to me.

"Well, you can't go to the event with the wardrobe you have currently," I explain; was planning on it being a surprise until we get to the shop, but ah well.

"No, I meant the part of me going to this… gala."

"Ah… that. Well, you already told me that you didn't really have set plans for the night of Family Day, which is when this is happening. Ma and Pa told me I could bring a guest."

"But what about my family?"

"They're invited too. We're sending the RSVPs out around this time anyways. Any issue with that?"

"No… at least, I don't think so? It's just… I don't even know what this event is," he says while looking around at us plaintively.

Brue decides to be the one to explain: "Ned's folks are hosting an event to highlight the foundation they have formed. It's going to consist of the usual: you know… fancy dinner, speeches, fancy drinks, dances, fancy appetizers… so many appetizers…" If but for a moment, the operative almost looks ready to start drooling before he snaps out of it. "Anyways… Pretty much everybody who's anybody is attending: politicians, military leaders, dignitaries, CEOs, random philanthropists, etcetera… etcetera…"

After that explanation, my roommate begins freaking out for some reason and blurts out, "I can't go to that!"

"Why not?" I shoot back with a scowl. "I thought you didn't have a problem with my folks."

"I don't! I mean… they seem like wonderful people—"

"So… what's the problem?"

"Isn't it obvious?" With the way he's staring at me, I'm getting the impression that Dio thinks I've gone mad. "I… I'm nobody! I wouldn't fit in."

I can't help but bark out a laugh. "And you reckon I do? I mean… look at me. You ever pegged me for the high-society type?"

"I… uh… but…"

"Aw… come on…" Luce says while throwing an arm across Dio's shoulder, "it'll be fun. And we could always use another youngin' in our group."

The kid looks up at them. "All of you are going to be there?"

"Yep. Me, Lucy, and Brue are representatives of Central."

"What about you?" This time, the query is directed to Joe.

"Spouse," the engineer grunts.

"So what do you say?" I ask the kid. "Still don't think you'll fit in?"

"I…" An eternity seems to pass as my roommate looks between us before he finally sighs, "I… Alright; but I need to ask if it's alright first."

"Fair enough," I concede. "You're still getting that suit."

~oOo~

The Shop with No Name — yes, seriously, that's what it's called — is probably one of Panem's fashion industry's best kept secret. In terms of fine bespoke, Cochineal Boulevard along the Southern Esplanade and Tyrian Row in Esquilinus are usually the places that come to mind for most people, not a tiny unmarked shop sandwiched between a hardware store and deli in District Town. But this spot has just as great quality, if not better, without the crowds or ridiculous prices.

As we enter into the venue — Joe and Brue elect to go to the deli first and promise to meet us later — a matronly lady looks up from her work desk to smile brightly at the four of us.

"Hello, welco—good gracious, Edwen!" she exclaims while rushing over to fret over me. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Ms. Espin," I assuage before holding up my scuffed-up vest, "though I'll admit that this may need some fixing."

She takes the vest from me and looks it over while gently tutting, "I swear that you come in for repairs more often than to get something new."

"Just think of it as a nice case of consistency," I chirp with a grin.

The tailor looks disapprovingly at me for a moment before smiling at my companions. "Lucy, Sativus will be out shortly. You and your brother can have a seat over there," she says while gesturing towards a spot with several plush chairs, a sofa, and a coffee table with a tea and snack set. That's when she notices the kid beside me. "And who's this?"

I use the opportunity to push Dio right in front of me. "He's actually the main reason I'm here. This guy is possibly going to attend the gala and will need a suit if you're willing make one for him."

That catches the former stylist's attention. Yep, Carminia Espin was a stylist for the Hunger Games alongside her partner Sativus Tracy several decades ago. The two both actually originate from One but, like many designers, managed to gain enough clout to earn citizenship to the Capitol. Eventually they retired; of course after building up quite the reputable fashion empire and fostering several apprentices that would become well-known stylists in their own right. It's probably good though that they allowed themselves to fade into relative obscurity considering the purge Coin issued against anybody connected to the Games, including stylists, in her attempt at consolidating power.

Now, they run a little shop mostly concerned with providing clothing for those in the know. And unlike many of the high-fashion houses here, they know how to intersect style — without it being ridiculous — with comfort and durability. Much of my everyday and all of my formal wardrobe comes from here — Espin's able to take my penchant for traversing rough terrain into account — and they were actually the ones responsible for designing Central's service uniforms and dress blues.

In any case, Espin takes the time to circle and examine an increasingly fidgety Dio before finally declaring, "You're from District Two."

The kid actually seems surprised that she's able to pinpoint that; as if the way he dresses doesn't already give it away. "Yes, ma'am."

"What is your name?"

"Dio, ma'am."

"Well, Dio," she states with a smile, "you can call me Carmina, but I suspect you'll probably be more comfortable calling me Ms. Espin."

"I take it that you'll accept?" I ask. At this point, the two former stylists are doing this more as a hobby than a career; so they can accept or reject anybody as they please, no matter much money you wave in their face.

"Yes, I accept. Dio here seems like a nice boy and an excellent physical specimen to work with, as shy as he may be." As if to prove her point, the kid flushes red at the compliment. "In fact… I have an idea."

Before I can ask what that idea is, Espin strides purposefully over to Tracy — unlike many stylists, both of them are very understated in the manner of which they dress and adorn themselves — who has just come out of a back room, and takes him aside to discuss something with him. Whatever the subject it, both former stylists become fairly animated in their discussion which draws looks of confusion from both Lucy and Dio, especially when they look at each other's tribu—I mean clients.

Finally the two finish talking and break apart — an apparently fruitful endeavor considering the spring in both of their steps — to take their charge into separate rooms for consultation. That's a frankly long a tedious process where they not only make measurements but ask personal questions to form a style and help build upon whatever end product is going to made.

The moment the doors to the rooms shut, I turn to Luce, who's been looking at the whole scene with an amused smile, and growl, "Alright, spill; something tells me you and Dio actually  _have_  met before."

His smile slips away as he begins scratching the back of his head. "Well, to be fair, he  _is_  probably correct that he ain't seen me before; if he did, it's understandable that he doesn't remember." When the Corpsman doesn't elaborate, I motion for him to continue; however he shakes his head in response. "Ain't sure that I should be telling you the whole details myself. All I can say is that it was at the end of the Rebellion. Remember when I had to stay in District Two for a while?"

"How could I forget?" I remember that just when I thought the guy couldn't earn any more decorations, he went and got several more from the new government due to his actions at Camp Victory and…  _oh hell…_ "You helped recover him from the Nut, didn't you," I mutter while dragging my hand through my face and cursing myself for not figuring it out sooner.

My reaction catches Luce off guard judging by the way he freezes and his eyes widen. "How'd you know?"

"Besides all those medals you received for that action?" I point out before adding under my breath, "I swear that hero-complex of yours is gonna get you killed someday if you ain't careful."

"That ain't what I meant," the Corpsman responds quietly, "and I think you know it. How'd you know Dio was in the mountain? Gale tells me he doesn't even talk about it much with his new family."

"You're aware who his birth parents are then?"

"You mean that witch of a Head Peacekeeper and her lackey husband? Those scum don't deserve to be called parents." Luce's voice doesn't change in volume, but there's no mistaking the hard and frigid edge it gains… or the way that his eyes take on a flinty quality. It reminds me of the intentions of the woman who birthed him and Lucy, no matter how much the Corpsman laughs it away.

"I'll… take as a 'yes'." With that said, I fill him in on the conversation I had with the president and the shrink earlier, as well as the talk Dio and I had a few weeks ago.

By the time I finish my explanation, Luce is sitting down and running his hand through his hair — still along the same scheme, though the yellow has shifted from a single stripe to now being scattered amongst the cyan — with a puff of air. "That's… a little more screwy than even I imagined. I reckoned that he didn't have good upbringing but…"

"Yeah…" I concur. "By the way, how was he when you recovered him?"

"Honestly wasn't so sure whether he'd make it or not. I left while the doctors examined and worked on him, but it's clear he sustained at least a concussion with rib damage and a high potential of internal bleeding from the abdominal trauma. That alone would've been bad enough without him already weakened from starvation."

Hearing all of this makes me think that Dio's so-called-parents got off lightly with their deaths.

Luce continues to say, "Anyways, I'm glad he has someone to look after him. It's also good that you've made a friend here." I'm about retort to that, but the Corpsman cuts me off with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah yeah… Ned ain't one to have 'friends'. Though what does that make us?"

"It… I… Shut up."

"Thought as much," he states with a smug grin, to which I can only offer a glower. "In any case, whatever you call those bonds that form, it's still nice that you're forming them with him. From what I've been told and seen so far, he seems like a good kid."

"He is," I mutter. "He is…"

We spend the rest of the time waiting to catch up on what's happening in both home and over here; mostly it's me asking about the former. In the end, I really can't wait to be done with this program so I can return to Central… even if Luce may think what I'm doing right now is good for me for some reason.

That's when something catches the Corpsman's eye and he walks over to a shelf carrying a whole stack of assorted fabric rolls. Maybe he saw something happen while we were talking, or maybe that mind of his wanted to test something out; whatever it is, something compels him to poke one of the rolls. The moment he does so, a rainbow of bright colors ripple out across the glossy black surface from where it was jabbed by his finger.

As the colors fade away, a wide grin appears on Luce's face. "This is great!" he exclaims before poking the fabric a couple more times while making accompanying sound effects with each poke. "Bleep-bloop."

"Yeah yeah… flashy colors."

"I need to get a t-shirt or something out of this stuff." More poking. "Beep-bleep-boop!"

"Alright that's enough."

"Just a little more. Bleep-boop-bloop!"

"We're going to get in trouble."

"Boooop."

"Wait, look out! You're going to—"

"Bloop-ble—AAAH!"

Looking back upon the general trend of Luce messing around with stuff, I suppose I should have this coming. Because, eventually, he manages to dislodge the roll from its stand, causing it to fall down; worse, all the other myriad rolls of fabric held back by it follow along with it. The Corpsman's desperate attempts at salvaging the situation just makes things worse as he knocks over a stand which hits a stack of upright rolls, resulting in a domino reaction that ultimately hits a cabinet full of beads and semiprecious stones to scatter the contents across the shop.

And  _of course_ , right when this happens, Joe and Brue walk into the venue at exactly the same moment that Dio and Lucy emerge with both shop owners. Considering the way that all eight of us freeze at the sight of each other and the chaotic setting, the situation would be hilarious if it weren't so mortifying.

After several minutes of tense silence, Lucy decides to be the first one to break it. "Now presenting… the future face of Central," she mutters with no small amount of displeasure in her voice. "This is the guy who's going to lead us all."

Almost as if to punctuate her statement, the last few rolls come tumbling down to drape a very sheepish Luce in a layer of lacy chiffon.

There's only one simultaneous answer Brue, Joe, and I can give to that:

"Rah."

~oOo~

Considering Luce's track record, we're lucky that nothing was broken in the course of the little chain reaction instigated by his attraction to shiny stuff. However, we — usually all of the labor would have been heaped onto the instigator as we leave him behind, but nobody wants things to potentially be made even worse — still spend over an hour setting everything back in place and cleaning the shop up before the owners can say anything about it. Probably what helps us the most are Brue's little "babies"; they pretty much become invaluable for collecting and sorting out all those scattered beads, crystals, and stones. Just to be on the safe side, Luce also cleans the windows and wipes down all surfaces to leave the place looking even better than when we arrived.

Of course, the moment we finish and he gets done apologizing, that idiot of a Corpsman immediately asks if it's possible to get a shirt or jacket made out of the material he was messing with from the start. The funny thing is, despite all that happened, he's told that they'll think of something. Then again, Luce has this kind of demeanor that puts most people — in some cases, even enemy combatants — at ease; he attributes it to his "good looks", while I attribute it to his stupidity.

Anyways, another bout of luck comes in the fact that Espin and Tracy have decided to make Dio and Lucy's outfits as their pet projects… whatever that entails; not even the subjects are completely aware as to what the final products or concepts are going to be, and what they do know, they're refusing to divulge. It also probably helps that they are already flush with cash and pretty much doing this just because they like to. In any case, because of that, I get quite a bit of surprise when the upfront cost for Dio's outfit is only two golds, while Lucy's is five; not that we wouldn't be able to pay the usual costs — in Luce's case, it's a mixture of Beetee chipping in and the corpsman himself not usually messing with the hefty sum Wiress bequeathed to him before that final reaping — but being presented with that mere fraction is a pleasant surprise nonetheless. We're cutting it a bit close — Dio's also going to have to visit the place at a weekly basis to get his fittings — but they assure us that they'll be ready by the equinox.

With that out of the way, all of us collectively decide to go get some dinner.

~oOo~

"… ain't my fault they don't follow directions."

Lucy's rationale makes me gape in incredulity. "She was _nine_. It wasn't one of your projects but a workshop."  

"Which was happening in my lab." 

" _Your_ lab? See, that's why you're a bitch," I declare while slamming my glass down.

Dio doesn't look convinced at my argument though. "While that last incident mentioned seems like a bit of an… overreaction on her part, I don't see what's wrong with the other."  _Dammit, kid, you're supposed to be taking my side!_  "I mean, I can't really follow all of the terms you used, but from the way both of you describe the situation, it sounds like her help was invaluable when you were making those beetles."

"She didn't help so much as butt into my project."

"You were being a stubborn ass when I pointed out its flaws in the first place," Lucy cuts in before looking at Dio. "Ned's just mad that _his_  'brilliant' idea for intra-swarm cloud communication was a complete flop; all I did was put down on paper what everybody else already knew."

"But  _you_  didn't have to be so smug when you made your seminar on why your idea was  _so_  much better," I growl.

"Because you were  _so_  modest when presenting those preliminary plans that were faulty from the start," she shoots back. "While we're on your projects, I'm still wondering what your obsession is with attempting to make every single damn organism bioluminescent. Even the diurnal mammals have that capability, which sort of negates the point."

"Hey," Luce barks, "don't diss the glowy things! Glowiness is a reason unto itself because… glowy. Fact."

"I… I ain't going to even pretend that makes sense."

"No… no, Luce  _does_  have a point," Brue notes. "There is a something about luminescence, organic or synthetic, that holds a certain appeal. Isn't that right?" he coos to his creations while petting a squirrel-like one on his shoulders; in response, all of them light up with a slight shudder and turn the operative into a practical Solstice decoration as he resumes spearing a chunk of bread in preparation of drowning it in cheese.

It was decided that our dinner spot would probably be best where portions are on the hefty side. So I suggested a Europan joint that's situated right on the Northern Boardwalk. Once we got situated at our table — the outdoor patio we're at gives a full view of the lake, mountains, and surrounding boardwalk — two pots are set before us: one's full of clarified butter, and the other has a melted mixture of imported cheeses infused with white wine and garlic. For the cheese pot, a basket laden with pieces of bread's presented; for the butter pot, it's a divided platter containing cubes of assorted raw meats and vegetables as well as bowls holding various sauces to dip the cooked items in. And the best part's that the supply's unlimited until we say so.

So we've spent most of the past half-hour gorging ourselves as the sun begins to set; granted… a lot of the gorging is on Brue. Due to the heightened amount of augmentations he has, even in Central terms, the guy usually eats as much as possible whenever possible; he's actually able to go for long periods on a limited supply of food, but it's preferable to do the opposite. At least, that's what he tells us; it could simply be that he has a large appetite and wants to find a rational excuse for it all other than just being gluttonous yet able to put all that food away without converting it to adipose storage.

Speaking of modifications… "I notice you're actually marked now," I remark while gesturing with my veal-laden fork at the tendril-like designs on Brue's neck. Due to his field of work, the guy couldn't afford to get tattoos like the rest of us. But I doubt he's stopped working, which only means… "I reckon that the development was a resounding success?"

He gives a small shrug at that. "You could say that. There're tweaks here and there that I need to work on — biggest one being the excessive epithelial shedding after every shift; it's almost as bad as a sunburn — but a second skin no longer needs to be utilized for work, which is always a plus."

An expression of confusion forms on Dio's face, but I wave him off. While most of the dinner has been spent answering the kid's many questions about Central — from the way it runs and its military structure… to how the five of us know each other, plus the band Luce, Brue, Joe, and I formed for kicks and giggles — it's actually probably risky mentioning the full details of Brue's augmentations in public. So, upon realizing that route is futile, my roommate instead focuses on Luce and Joe: "If you don't mind me noticing this: it almost sounds like you want to have kids of your own; as in your own own. So… how is that possible?"

The Corpsman immediately perks up at this query, and I brace myself for the incoming high-energy lecture. "Oh that's easy! Now, the simplest method is to take a human egg, empty it of its genetic material, and then fill that vacant spot with the DNA of one of the parents; afterwards, you simply fertilize it the same way any egg would be fertilized. Of course, though, this is method is limited by the availability of donor eggs, especially if the donor wishes them to remain whole. So the obvious answer to that is to create an egg from scratch," he rambles breathlessly. "For this, it's a case of utilizing PSCs to convert skin cells into germ cells, from which you can make an egg with the genetic material of one of the donors already in place; it's a good way of helping a woman who's unable to produce eggs as well. The whole procedure actually precedes Panem, and since a century ago, all issues dealing with mutations and expressional disorders have been addressed and fixed; this includes the issue of presenting maternal or paternal genes from one side when both parents are of one gender."

"Oh… uh… okay…" Sure enough, it's obvious that much of that explanation has completely flown over Dio's head; Luce may be a bit lackluster in many academic subjects, but if it involves human anatomy and physiology, as well as recent medical advances, he's almost freakishly well-informed. But my roommate's apparently well-informed enough to ask, "Though how would the baby be born since… you know…" He can't even say the basic anatomical reasons for his statement without looking all flustered.

"Yeah… that's a bit of a challenge. Before you ask, the seahorse route ain't an option. I mean, technically, it might be possible to create some marsupial-like pouch… but there's so much reconfiguring you'd have to do to the human body — not to mention so many variables — that the risk to both the parent and child would be too excessive to even test out the procedure."

"Even i͘͡-̀i͜-̡i̕͘-̨if̕ such tech was available, no way in h̢͟-̴̨h͏-͜͜h̴ell I'd agree to go through that," Joe adds in a manner that dares anybody to suggest otherwise.

"All in all… a nono. There's the option of getting a surrogate mother, but… eh… it ain't exactly something I'd want to push on anybody. So the most likely route would be the utilization of an artificial womb, which is already common here in the Capitol."

"Capitolites don't like nothing 'messing with their figure'," Lucy mutters.

"Well, there are legitimate reasons to use the tech," the Corpsman counters, "especially if the mother has preexisting conditions or, as with us, ain't… well… a mother. And the controlled setting allows an even higher chance for the baby to go to full term; we've actually gotten to the point that we can remove a developing fetus and transfer it to the womb in the event that the mother can't or won't progress further.

"Only problem with these artificial wombs is the, for lack of a better word, artificial and sterile nature of them. I sometimes worry about how easy a lot of these Capitol kids may be susceptible to illness at an early age." Before my roommate can ask why, Luce elaborates: "As a fetus develops in a natural uterus it picks up small amounts of bacteria from the mother via the bloodstream. More importantly, during birth, it picks up various strains of different flora while passing through the vagina. All of this, plus human breastmilk, helps builds up the child's microbiota and by extension the immune system.

"In contrast, a child born from an artificial womb risks coming into the world with a weakened immune system. Now on the upside, we now have had recent developments where we can gradually inoculate wombs with microbiota without risking infecting the fetus, so the issue will possibly become nullified in a couple years or so. We also induce various chemical and audio stimuli to best simulate the natural process of pregnancy, as such things are just as important for the fetus' development; transmitting heartbeat and voice in real-time would also assist in imprinting. Though we'd still need to get breastmilk from a third party. I mean… we could—"

"No," Joe growls, "I ain't g̨̡͡-̨̨͘g͞-̨g-͜g͘͘oing t̨-́͝҉t̸̵̴-̢t̴͝-́̀to undergo some treatment to induce lacţ̀-̷̀͞t҉-̸̀͞t-̨̀t-̵̕t͝-̵t̶̴—̶̢͟Ś͘Ó͡͝N͢ ̨O̕̕F̢҉͝ ̴A̢͘ ̷̡͠B̧I̴T̶̀͞C̷̸H̡!͝" At this point, the engineer looks ready punch somebody in the face as he practically rips his collar off to begin fiddling with it while sending a venomous glare towards a couple in a nearby table who are staring at his outburst.

While that's occurring, Lucy looks at Dio and says, "Of course, this is all irrelevant considering that they ain't gonna have a kid until they officially tie the knot, and that ain't gonna happen until about seven years from now."

"That… seems like a bit of a long wait," the kid mutters with a small frown.

Luce pauses in calming Joe down to remark, "That's because she's being pessimistic about her future."

"I wouldn't call it pessimism or optimism," she shoots back. "Not all of us think getting married and raising a family is the end-all-be-all to life."

"Can't argue with that," I admit with a raise of my glass.

"So… are you… uh… like Ned?" The moment the meaning of Dio's query begins sinking in, the five of us freeze and stare at him in silence. I don't know how long we do that — it has to at least be a minute — but once the silence is broken, the breaking's done by uproarious laughter overtaking us all despite the scowl of confusion that settles on the kid's face; that even includes Joe, whose laughs sound like that of a mule's brays.

"Dude, we're sorry," Brue gasps between chuckles, "and I know you aren't that familiar with us. But just the idea of someone calling Lucy an ace is quite… something."

By now, my roommate likely figures out what we find so amusing judging by the way he flushes red and attempts to shrink his profile. That just makes Lucy pat him atop the head as she manages to wind down her chortles. "To answer your question… no, I ain't anything 'like Ned'." Just to punctuate her statement, she gives him a light peck on the cheek. "But thanks for the good laugh."

If the kid was flushing before, at this moment I swear that I can feel the heat radiating off him; not to mention that his eyes are wide enough to create a broad white perimeter around his irises. Despite this, he manages to stammer out a near-inaudible response: "You-you're welcome?" After a while, he manages to recover enough to ask, "So why do you not like the idea of raising a family?"

"Never said that. If I end up coming across somebody, and they end up turning into something more than just a friend or fuck buddy, I don't see why we shouldn't hit it off and create a kid in the process. That's a pretty strong 'if' though, and so far I ain't complaining," she states in a matter-of-fact manner. "Now my brother, on the other hand… he's the gooey type and doesn't want to get married until I do. For some reason, the idea of having a dual wedding is a big deal to him. Frankly, I think he should just get it over with, but he seems convinced that I'll manage to find somebody within this decade."

"So I made an agreement with her," Luce pipes. "If she doesn't get engaged by the time I turn thirty, I'll agree to proceed with the wedding without her. But not before then."

"But doesn't that still seem like too long of a time?"

Joe answers Dio's question with a shrug and signs something — I still can't follow it well — that Luce immediately translates: "He doesn't think Lucy will find anybody as well, but this agreement wouldn't have gone ahead if he didn't approve it. He's patient." A small smile forms on the Corpsman face as he nuzzles into the crook of the engineer's neck. "It's one of the things I love about him." Joe just rolls his eyes while patting Luce's hand, but it's impossible to miss his smirk as well.

Just that display makes me feel like I'm drowning in molasses; it was even worse when Joe proposed. Still, I can't say that I'm not happy for them.

"I'd like to have kids." Dio's quiet statement gains our attention again. I'm not sure if he was intending for us to hear that, because he immediately looks quite sheepish; however, Lucy just motions to continue, if there's anything to continue from. "It's just… there's something about raising a child of your own that I've found wonderful for a while now. I mean… I don't have any illusions that anybody would marry me, but one can always dream, right?"

The last point of his causes the rest of us to look uneasily at each other, especially the other four who aren't as familiar with the kid's… issues. Brue just clears his throat and notes, "Well… all else fails, you can always adopt. No shortage of adoptable kids right now."

"Also, cloning's always an option," I note. "In the small chance that I may decide on having progeny of my own, that's the route I'm going to take."

My roommate actually seems to be in awe of the concept. "You can do that?"

"It's a ridiculously simple and common process today. Since I'm male, I even have the option of choosing the gender. Which is just as well since there's no point in having your offspring be completely identical to yourself."

"Though explaining why there's only one parent would be a bit of an issue…" Luce points out.

"More so than a parent who's been single for as long as the child can remember? Or a woman who gets implanted with donated sperm? Or… you know…  _adoption at an early age_?" I counter before conceding: "Though the explanation would indeed still be a bit of a hassle. Which is why it probably won't happen. Also the idea of having to raise some screaming shit machine…" A slight shudder goes through me.

"I dunno… I think you'd possibly be a great dad."

Dio's comment earns another bout of silence from us, but instead of laughing, Lucy turns in incredulity to regard him: "You're shitting me…"

I'd probably be saying something similar if I just met the kid. But at this point I just mutter, "Quite the opposite; he can't bullshit to save his own life. Doesn't make him right however."

Somehow this actually makes my roommate look like he's shoring up one of those rare bouts of defiance. "It may sound strange to you all, but I still think he's capable of caring for a child, and he's already proven that possibly not having a wife is no obstacle. In fact, Ned," — Am I imaging it, or am I actually seeing some fire in his eyes? — "I bet that you'll have a  _grandkid_  by the time you're fifty. I bet a gold on that."

Now that really makes the rest of us go silent. "Don't be silly, kid."

"I'm not joking. I think that, for all your talk about being a monster, you're more capable of caring for others than you'll admit."

"… You really want to do this?"

"Now that you say it… no."  _Didn't think s—_ "Ten gold."

"What." Everybody else follows my response in the same manner. "You know it ain't gonna affect me either way, but are you really that willing to risk ten thousand denarii just to prove a point?"

"Yes. And I  _know_  I'm not risking anything."  _Damn…_  If Dio showed as much conviction in his day-to-day interactions as he does now, nobody would be able to stop him. "So, what do you say to that?"

"… Well, shit… Alright, let's play it your way." Before the kid can say anything, I request two small snifters and a bottle of cognac. Upon receiving them, I place one glass in front of myself and one in front of him before turning to our other dining companions. "Now, this is a bit more haphazard than usual, but you think you're all able to be witnesses to this?" All four nod in assent, and I notice Brue having one of his machines begin recording.

"What are you doing?" asks Dio, his previous defiant state evaporated by now.

"Making this agreement final… Central style." Well, if it was truly Central style, we'd be using our mead — preferably a methlegin — but it's not allowed to be exported from the community so… we're making do. In any case, the kid doesn't object or anything, but focuses closely as I pour the proper amount into his snifter before stating, "I, Edwen Bannon, promise to pay Diocletian Cohen ten thousand denarii should a grandchild be born of direct lineage from me before my fiftieth birthday."

I don't even need to instruct the kid about anything, as he successfully copies my actions — down to the right amount of cognac for the glass — and states, "I, Diocletian Cohen, promise to pay Edwen Bannon ten thousand denarii should a grandchild fail to be born of direct lineage from him before his fiftieth birthday."

Without further ado, both of us raise our glasses and, while maintaining eye contact, down the contents; the sound of a shutter operating hints at Lucy documenting the process. Thus the deal is sealed; simple as that.

After a few minutes, Luce takes the initiative in breaking the silence and holds up his bourbon-filled tumbler aloft between us all. "So… to the future?"

 _Why not?_  "To the future," is the collective response as our glasses clank together.

All in all, as the evening begins to meld into itself with a booze-induced haze, I think about how it's great to hang out with these guys from all those years ago. Yes, that even includes Lucy; sometimes just plain familiarity is a pleasure unto itself… despite how much of a bitch that familiarity is.

In any case, I swear that the rest of the evening doesn't involve the four of us taking over the karaoke stage for a routine that includes several coordinated dance numbers; it certainly doesn't include us stripping our shirts off and ignoring the bemused and flustered way Dio and Lucy watch us from amongst the cheering audience.

Nope. Nothing of that sort. Completely low-key.

No matter what stories the photos may tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that common character archetype: the one guy who's constant displays of silliness or stupidity actually turn out to be a deliberate mask to hide either sheer badassitude and/or complete angst?  
> Luce is not that guy. 
> 
> The procedure described for creating an egg is something that's actually being worked on around this time, though of course viability and the risk of genetic disorders are a very real concern. Granted, if they have the genetic advancement to successfully produce mutts, then it's not a stretch to imagine that this problem has already been solved.


	14. Afternoon Appointment

"Hey Ned?"

"Hmm…"

"Are you doing anything today?"

Dio's query causes me to pop my head out of the curtains. Even without school or anything on Wednesdays, my roommate somehow still likes to wake up early — 0600 on average — and is currently in the midst of browsing through the archival database. For some reason he's actually interested in all of the history stuff, which I could get if it weren't for the fact that he doesn't seem to pay much attention to the tech; aerospace capability is one of the things actually noteworthy about our forbearers, yet the kid bizarrely just skims past that to focus on stuff like art and customs of the time.

I, on the other hand, use this time to sleep in especially considering how late we were up last night. 1030 is a reasonable time to get up, and since it's only 0923 right now there's no reason to strain myself in an undue manner. Still, I guess I can hear Dio out for a bit.

"Nothing planned." After a moment of thought, I narrow my eyes a bit. "Why do you ask?" There's no way he's bringing up this topic just for the sake of conversation; otherwise, he wouldn't have interrupted my state of not-really-asleep-but-just-going-to-lie-here-for-a-more-couple-hours-until-I'm-hungry-enough-to-finally-roll-out-of-bed.

As usual, the kid fidgets a bit before responding. "If you may have… um… recalled yesterday, I have an appointment with a… therapist."

"Yeah, and?"

"The appointment is today at thirteen hundred sharp."

I'm still a bit on the tired side, and it's enough to almost have my mind slip about the fact that I'm not supposed to really know anything about these appointments except for what he has told me so far. So I manage bite back a statement along the lines of him telling me things I already know, and instead settle for a simple, "Aaand?"

"Well, I just got a message from Dr. Aurelius, and… well… he would like to invite you over to today's session."

My irritation at being sort-of-woken-up-but-not-really fades at that pronouncement. For what reason does the shrink want my presence; we just talked yesterday, I thought shrink-to-patient discussions were a sort of confidential thing, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't really care for me. "Did he say why?"

Dio shakes his head at that. "He only said that you may find it 'interesting'."

"What about you?"

For some reason, that makes him blink a bit. "What do you mean?"

That I actually have to explain makes me exhale a puff of air. "You're going to therapist. I reckon that's normally something you'd consider to be fairly personal. Despite what your shrink may say, it should be up to you whether you want to have someone else tag along. So what do you say?"

Some time passes, and more fidgeting accompanies an inaudible mumble.

"What was that now?"

Finally, he decides to make eye-contact and murmurs, "I… think… I think I'd like you to come along. I mean, if you don't mind; it's up to you. If you don't want to, that's alright; it'd probably be a waste of time for you. But I still think that it'd be nice for you to attend. Do you think you can come over?"

 _Fuck…_  Even if I wasn't already starting to express a slight bit of interest as to whatever this appoint would consist of, the kid really knows how to word things to make you feel like one hundred percent of a dick if you refuse; the kicker being the fact that he's obviously not doing this on purpose. So I answer him with a chirped, "Why not?"

"Really?" With the way he looks taken aback, I honestly think that he thought I'd refuse. Well it's nice to know that I still have some surprises of my own.

As hard as it is to convey while most of my torso is hidden away behind the curtain, I offer him a shrug. "Sure. It ain't like I have anything better to do."

I swear that Dio gives a small sigh of relief before immediately perking up. "Alright! I'll let him know you accepted the invitation."

"Is there anything I should bring with me?"

My query makes my roommate look thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. "I don't think so. I bring high-activity clothes, but I doubt you'll have to participate."

I'm tempted to ask what sort of therapy requires his athletic gear, but I decide to leave the issue be and go back to my nap.

It's not long after we have lunch that Dio grabs his duffel and we stand in front of the residential tower in wait for our ride. Speaking of which…  _Where are we going and how are we going to get there?_

Before I can vocalize that query, something horribly familiar comes rolling down the drive before stopping before us.

At the sight of our probable mode of transportation, I begin to take a few steps back and state, "You know what… I probably have some stuff to do with… class. Yep, class. Besides, it ain't like I want to burden this driver in taking two round trips just so I—"

"It can seat three people, sir."  _Fuck…_ Despite the polite and professional tone of his voice, there's no mistaking the smug smirk forming behind Jenson's helmet.

So as I'm sandwiched between the motorcycle's other two occupants, the only retort I can give is a muttered, "Rebels should have perforated you during the war."

Despite the horrified gasping noise my roommate makes in response to my speculative statement, the former Peacekeeper on the other hand seems to be completely unruffled. "But they didn't," he remarks back. "Which is just as well; I tend to have a slight aversion to pain."

"Fu—" I don't get to finish my statement as he guns the death-machine and sends us on its way. Hopefully said way doesn't involve me being evenly spread across the pavement.

~oOo~

Other the fading bout of nausea that I'm still recovering from — I'm just coherent enough to flip Jenson of when he waves at us during his departure, while in contrast Dio cheerfully waves back; if anything the two idiots managed to be almost chummy during the entire ride — a slight bit of surprise overtakes me as I look upon our point of arrival. Considering the meeting I had yesterday, I was honestly expecting our destination to be the Presidential Mansion.

Instead, we've just crossed a bridge to stop at an skyscraper-capped island in Center Lake. An island that served as the Games Headquarters.

It's kind of amazing how they managed to cram everything having to deal with the Games into the structure: from the tribute apartments and training center, to the mentoring hub and Gamemaker hubs, to media studios and the actual Capitol branch of the "Capitol Labs" — a den of fools and traitors — etcetera. There's also a lot of stuff that goes beyond the Games: such examples being a Peacekeeper and surveillance facility, detention center, and city control room. It's almost a city in of itself.

Just as amazing is the persistence of the debate as to whether the place should still remain intact, especially since the fate of the arenas has already been decided. Those who view it as glorifying the Capitol's injustices — not just for the Games but also the tortures and control of the pods during the war — think that it should just be razed. Others say that it's because of said injustices that it would better serve as a museum and memorial by remaining whole. Others simply want it to stay and be repurposed due to its supposed architectural value and it's national height status; the last point is reason enough for me to not oppose demolishment as such an action would make the Tower — with the spire, Central's centerpiece just short by a couple meters — reclaim the title of Panem's tallest.

Anyways, the choice of venue is frankly a bit peculiar, and it makes me question the shrink's credentials.

Despite the debate about the place, it's still maintained by the government to keep from becoming derelict. It helps that certain spots are still useful. At the very least, the old Peacekeeper facility's occupied by a security task force, and the control room's still in use for maintaining the Capitol's climate and utilities. At the same time however, the general public is not allowed access, with the detail at the entrance being a slight testament to that.

After receiving our IDs, a couple of the guards practically rush us through the spacious lobby into one of the glass elevators, and one actually stands with us to pick the floor; I for one am shocked — Shocked, I say! — that we're not considered trustworthy enough not to not wander off the designated path and begin exploring this elaborate, if a bit ostentatious, structure for kicks. However, after we disembark from the elevator and walk through a foyer, a wondrous sight banishes my previous discontent.

The room has to at least be the size of a large gymnasium, with what looks like a lounge-sized alcove set a couple stories up into the wall to overlook the entire space. However, it's not this room alone that has my attention; rather, it's the target range, practice dummies, elaborate obstacle course, and racks filled with various melee and non-gunpowder ranged weapons — so many weapons… — that has me almost giddy with excitement. It vaguely occurs to me that it's slightly strange that they have kept the training area intact, but really the only thing I'm thinking about is how much I want to try this place out.

Unfortunately the feeling of excitement passes as my gaze falls upon the shrink standing in middle of the room and obviously waiting for us. To my surprise, instead of the business-like suit that he wore yesterday, the outfit Aurelius has on right now is pretty much simply a tracksuit. I mean, it's one that's a bit on the cleaner-cut and professional side so as to probably not look slovenly or anything, but that doesn't change the fact that he looks more like a coach than a psychiatrist right now. What's not different however is the slight look of dislike he has on his face when making eye contact with me; for someone whose specialty is supposed to be the mind, this guy seems to be fairly hard at hiding his feelings.

Of course Dio's completely obvious to that when he introduces us. "Dr. Aurelius, I'd like you meet Ned. Ned, this is the therapist I mentioned."

As the two of us shake hands, the shrink states, "It's nice to make your acquaintance, Edwen."  _Hah!_  "Or do you prefer 'Ned'?"

"Likewise," I mutter back. "'Edwen is sufficient, thank you."

"Dio's talked a bit about you. I must say that you seem to be quite an… interesting influence."

"Well, the kid's said nothing about you. I wonder if that's supposed to mean something…"

Before we can further this passive-aggressive we-already-met-and-established-how-much-we-dislike-each-other-but-can't-let-the-kid-know greeting ritual, Aurelius turns his attention to Dio and, in a considerably warmer tone, greets the kid and gestures to the alcove-y room which I guess is what's used in lieu of a psych office; then again, I'm not really sure if there's a standard for such a place. I'm about to follow them when the shrink tells me, "Actually, Edwen, this is a confidential meeting and just between me and Dio." Before I can say anything to that, he adds, "I requested you here because there's something I'd like to discuss with you after this."

"So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

He gestures around at the room we're in. "While you wait, you're free to familiarize yourself with this place. Also there are refreshments in the corner, and the locker room is in that direction."

I'll admit that takes me aback a bit. "You mean… I'm free to use the… tools here?"

My excitement must show because it looks like he's having second thoughts about it. "As long as you don't cause any undo damage." With that, the two of them walk through a door, leaving me to this playground.

~oOo~

I'm testing out the throwing knifes when Aurelius' curt voice informs me over the intercom to meet him in to the viewing room. After a set of instructions, as well as setting everything back in place, I go through the same doorway they went through earlier to go past the locker room and into another elevator; there's no guard this time, as almost all the other floors are locked, so I just click the available button.

When I enter the richly-furnished room — judging by the way it gives a wide-angled view of the whole training room; I guess this is where the Gamemakers oversaw everything during the training period — Aurelius looks up at me from his tablet and his expression darkens to… let's just say it's that of severe disapproval. Despite not knowing the contents of their discussion — the way they situated themselves made it so it was impossible to eavesdrop or even read body language from where I was; yes, I tried — I have a good idea what it's about and, as I plop myself down on the chair opposite from him, decide to beat the shrink to the punch: "Lemme guess… he told you about me yelling at him yesterday."

"After all we talked about, why did you have to lash out at him like that?" Despite the calm tone Aurelius conveys, there's no denying that he's a bit… upset.

To my own surprise, I don't respond with a sharp retort but rather a quiet, "It wasn't intentional."

After what feels like a few minutes of silence and him mulling something over in his head while maintaining eye contact, Aurelius takes his glasses off and massages the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "I suspected as much, and Dio did tell me that you apologized, which I do commend." The way he says it makes it seem like apologizing is an once-in-a-lifetime thing for me to do. It's frankly a bit presumptive on his part; I have apologized several times this year. "Still, setting aside your… questionable history and ethics, I'm beginning to think that you may have—"

"Stop right there. Because if the end of that sentence is going to involve something along the lines of me having issues of some sort, I should remind you that I never made any psych appointment of my own. Unless this was the entire purpose for you 'inviting' me."

"It's not."

"Then there's nothing to talk about. I'm successful and motivated, I'm eating well, I have no detrimental shifts in my physiology, I don't self-medicate or see things that ain't there, and so on. Last I checked, that's usually a good sign of mental health."

"I never said or even implied anything about your mental state."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The issue is how you express your frustrations. Do you deny that you sometimes act out in an impulsive manner?"

"Nothing bad has come out of this so far." I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible; the fact that this prick's managing to keep the spotlight on me is beginning to be a bit unnerving. When he makes a vague gesture in the direction of my face it's not hard to figure out what he means. "It ain't nothing that won't completely heal within a couple weeks."

"So you think no real harm is brought upon yourself. Fair enough. However, let's flip this around: has your impulsiveness ever brought you any benefit? If your life is in order as you say, why do—"

"Like I said before," I grit out, "if it ain't about me, don't make it about me."

"Okay, you may not care what people think of you… but what about Dio? Do you expect him to just 'deal with it' whenever you have an outburst?"

An image flashes of the kid sitting on the sidewalk with tears streaming down his face. I push it away. "If he has a problem with me, he should just say so."

"We both know that's not what he thinks." When I don't say anything to that, Aurelius just adds, "Again, what I've been told seems to imply that you're capable of realizing and possibly reigning in your emotions. If you don't want my help with that, it's your choice. But if only for your roommate's sake, I highly suggest figuring out a way to channel your frustrations in a way that isn't so destructive. I'm not telling you to keep a lid on things or have some false veneer of politeness; that can create some issues as well in the long term. Just try to be more mindful about how you express yourself."

"… I'll keep that in mind."

"I hope so. On a lighter note, at the very least it seems that his meeting with your compatriots went considerably smoother."

"I think they like him," I muse before attempting to get back onto the original topic. "So… why am I here? Scratch that; why are we here?"

As if to answer me, Dio comes walking out into the middle of the training room dressed in his athletic garb. Before I can ask what he's doing, the kid takes a broadsword off the weapon's rack and begins doing some practice swings with it.

Now  _that_  causes me to send a questioning stare towards the shrink. "Wait… I thought that the whole Career training thing was bad. Why is he handling weapons?"

"Dio may have had a negative experience during his upbringing, and yes it's clear that he has a strong aversion to the idea of harming others. That doesn't change the fact that he still viewed most of the training itself as a highlight of his life, and we've found that this is actually quite therapeutic for him."

Sure enough, despite the intense look of concentration forming on his face, the kid actually looks like he's in his element; this is especially seen when a set of static and dynamic holographic targets materialize. As we observe my roommate attack them, Aurelius adds, "And like I mentioned earlier, it provides me with another way to observe how he functions. You of all people should understand that recordings only get us so far in terms of research."

"True," I concede. I admit that this is fairly fascinating to watch, especially how fluidly Dio transitions from weapon to weapon. It's obvious from here that he's not as proficient in a specific technique as any master would be, but I'm still not sure that would matter much if he has an assortment of tools at his disposal. "So why are you dressed to exercise?"

"It's for when we spar," Aurelius states in a manner that's so nonchalant, he might as well be talking about the color scheme of the room we're in. Surprise must show on my face, because he immediately says, "Sometimes it's good to observe in a hands-on manner and it allows me to converse with him in the process. Also, it's a solid way to stay in shape. Bear in mind that while District Thirteen may have not emphasized melee combat as in District Two, it was still part of our regimen."

That piece of information causes me to reassess the shrink. Sure enough, on second glance, it's clear that the guy — he probably has to be in his forties — actually seems to have the same level of fitness that you'd expect from a soldier. I'm not going to say this observation translates into respect for him, but at least he's not just some psychobabble-spouting pencilneck. Though…

"Your name doesn't sound very Thirteen-y."

Aurelius actually gives me a small smile in turn. "I get that a lot. Yes, I originated here, but… a few things caused me to decide to leave right after the conclusion of my residency."

"So why ain't I convinced that Thirteen's the first place you learned to spar?"

To my surprise, the shrink's smile turns into a chuckle. "Observant. But I guess that's fair," he notes. "Fencing was a pastime of mine at a young age and up through medical school."

"Huh… I suppose that makes sense." In any case, the whole subject about sparring does raise another question. "So Dio have no problem going up against you? No seizing up or anything?"

"I'm just as surprised as you, but I guess there's a part of him that differentiates a match with no lethal intent from a targeting scenario that has the purpose to kill, even if the latter doesn't actually involve an actual living being. Though there's always some initial hesitation."

 _Hmm…_  "But he'll still commit to a match, right?"

"Yes, w—wait, what are you doing?"

"Oh…" I state as stand up and commence my exit from the observational room, "just planning to have some hands-on observation."

A few minutes later, I'm walking out onto the training floor. Dio, who has just returned a flail to its place, notices my entrance — also probably the fact that I'm in the process of taking off my shirt; I should have brought my sport clothes, so this is the best I can do — and raises his eyebrows. However, before he can say anything, I get to right to the point:

"Let's fight."

That seems to catch him completely off-guard, and he freezes on the spot. "What?"

"I was told you like to spar. So how about we change things up a bit?"

Despite Aurelius' assertions that all of this is therapeutic for Dio, the kid looks anything but relaxed by my offer. "Ned… why are you doing this?"

"You ain't the only person here who likes to fight. And it's been a looong time since I've gotten to do something even close to that." Okay it was June, but the point still stands. More to the point, I really just want to see what this kid's made of.

"I wouldn't exactly call what I do fighting."

"Sparring is close enough," I remark while browsing through the assortment for something that would fit. Of course blades are out of the question… as is anything ranged…

When I look back at him, I can see that Dio is glancing up at Aurelius; probably for confirmation whether I really am planning on doing this… or if it's allowed. Despite the doctor giving a nod in assent, the kid doesn't seem to be any less uneasy. "So how do you want to do this?"

"Oh this is just going to be a simple little trial involving your defensive capabilities. Ah here we are!" Unlike my collapsible one, the practice baton I pick up and begin swinging around is specifically made for training judging by the padding on it; of course it has the potential to be dangerous, but that would require a disproportionate amount of effort. So it's perfect for what I'm planning. "As for when… how about now?"

And with that little announcement, I launch myself at Dio.

To his credit, and despite being caught by surprise, the kid instinctively crosses his forearms in front of him by the time I close the distance between us. However, I easily sidestep around and lightly tap him on the back of the neck. "You're dead. Or at least paralyzed."

As I put some distance between us and get into a ready stance, Dio blurts out, "I'm not even armed!"

"Ain't my problem," I breathe while lunging forward. This time, after I get him on the back of both hamstrings and the left side of his ribcage, my roommate blocks an incoming hit to his noggin with his upper arm and then proceeds to lash out with the elbow. I barely dodge the blow but follow that up by bopping him on the head twice.

"Ah." I can't help but grin while bouncing in place from foot to foot. "So you _do_ have some spunk there. Let's see if we can coax it out a bit more. Of course, you're free to stop this exercise any time if you wish. Just say the word. Would you like that?"

Honestly, it actually does surprise me a bit when the kid shakes his head in response. However, I simply respond to that with the baring of teeth and, "Excellent. Now… let's do this again."

So we go through the process again and again. Most of the time, I simply attack by running past him, getting a hit in, and continuing on running to loop back around and repeat the process.

I have to give it to Aurelius, he's right in that a live observation of Dio is quite fascinating; because as I circle him for the umpteenth time, things about the kid start to become more apparent. Despite the anxiety overload that still dominates his expression, I notice that he's no longer fidgeting; rather instead it's almost eerie how still he becomes, with only a twitch here and there as his attention remains on me. The only times where he would break his focus is whenever his eyes flit to certain spots in the room: high point, the weapons' rack, that spot that I was just looking at a second ago. Rather than a cornered animal simply debating between fight or flight, it's almost as if he's a computer trying to calculate the probability of various scenarios occurring.

Thing is, despite how all well and dandy that is, there's the fact that the world doesn't work on probability alone. Not to mention how hesitant and sluggish he still is, even though there's no sign that he's tiring out. Sure, each block and counterattack is becoming quicker and more effective, but the progression is too gradual for my liking.

That's when Dio decides to break from the routine. Because the moment I feint to the right, he, instead of prepping for another assault, bolts forward; however, it's directly at me but rather in a tangent that's just a little to my left. I almost lose precious seconds before figuring out what he's trying to do:

He's headed for the weapons' rack.

_Finally you're getting the right idea…_

However, it's not like I'm going to make it that easy. So I immediately reverse directions and go in with a slide tackle. The kid quickly tries to adjust for the obstacle, but I succeed in tripping him up to go tumbling to the ground. I'm pretty sure that spot on my shin is going to bruise, but I ignore it.

As Dio manages to get up on a kneeling position, I do still ask, "Are you hurt? Anything broken?" When, after a few seconds, he shakes his head, I say, "Glad to hear. With that in mind… Again." And thus I move forward before he even begins to stand up.

I'm not sure what exactly occurs during this split-second; all I can register is that one moment I'm about to land another hit in, and the next… a vice-like grip clamps around my forearm followed by another grip under my other arm. Said grips don't hold for long, and once it loosens, I continue on my planned trajectory…

Except that there's just the little niggling fact that I'm now airborne.

It's probably very fortunate that there is padding on almost every surface of the place. Even with that benefit, not to mention some quick thinking on my part to tuck in a bit as gravity plays its part, the landing is not as comfy as I'd like as I roll across the floor — I might as well be a flat stone tossed against a pond surface — and slam into the wall before settling in a crumpled gasping heap. It dimly occurs to me that, if my angle of impact would have had just the slightest deviation, thing would have probably gone a bit worse.

Oh… and now my bruises from earlier this week have just decided to begin protesting. Wonderful…

When I finally manage to get my breath back, I can see that Aurelius is absolutely mortified in the background. However, his reaction is fairly insignificant when compared to the one overtaking the now-standing Dio, who has gone pale while looking between me and his own hands with wide eyes. "Ned! I-I'm-I didn't mean to do that! It-it was just supposed to… it was supposed be a simple deflection. Are-are you alright?"

As I get up and dust myself off, I simply respond to the kid's stammered statements of concern with a chirp: "Never better. Now then…" After making sure nothing's broken or anything, I roll my shoulders a few times before resuming my starting stance while feeling my face instinctively stretching into a toothy grin.  _Looks like we're finally getting somewhere…_  

"Again."

~oOo~

The next few weeks pass by on the uneventful side. We go to our classes, study, explore the city, spar every Wednesday, get fitted in District Town in Dio's case, and so on.

For the sparring part, Dio's actually getting better at responding to my attack to the point that I'm beginning to have to utilize the obstacle platforms to get a bit of an edge over him. I actually want to get some of the other guys involved in this, but the kid doesn't want anybody else to know about his appointments so I let the issue drop.

Before long, fall break rolls around, giving us a full week of liberty. While some of the students do use to the time to go back to their districts, both my roommate and I stay in and continue on with the routine, except without the school stuff to deal with.

That Saturday morning, I get waken up by literally being rolled out bed via my sheets being pulled out from under me. When my eyes finally adjust to the dim light — it can't even be 0700 yet — I behold Luce, Joe, and Brue standing over me with matching grins; Dio's at his desk and Lucy's lounging on the couch. Of course, those four aren't going to be the last people to arrive here.

Barely an hour passes when there's a knock on the door. As Dio's a bit busy having a puzzle-solving race with our current guests — except for Luce; his contribution is to take the puzzles apart in the first place… usually by dashing them across the floor — I volunteer to get it.

Judging by his reaction, I guess this visitor wasn't planning on me being the one to answer. Because as he looks down at me, his expression shifts from a warm smile to the sort of scowl that could end all scowls.

To his credit however, he does have the presence of mind to greet me civilly:

"Bannon."

So even if he's a bit on the curt side, who am I to not respond in kind?

"Hawthorne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything Games-related being consolidated into one skyscraper not only has symbolic value but accounts for the seemingly considerable height of the rooftop despite there only being twelve apartments.


	15. Family Day

I really can't pinpoint what exactly caused Gale Hawthorne to gain quite a substantial dislike towards me, but I have several hypotheses: one was when he found out that I used to create mutts for the Games; another was when I was giving him tips on how to deal with Mutt Food if ever he had to walk around West City; and of course there's also the possibility of it being because of some off-hand comments I made about the mental state of his "cousin" and her whipping boy.

Granted, a good chance is that it's all of the above.

Whatever the reason, it only took our very first meeting — it was a New Years ball that doubled as a first-anniversary celebration for the official end of the Rebellion; aka the ignoble demise of Presidents Coriolanus Snow and Alma Coin — for Commander Scowly MacBroodyface to commence his oh-so-original and perpetual habit of scowling at me with about as much charm as a tick. On the upshot, it's not like I have to put on some veneer of politeness around him either.

We could probably keep this impasse up for quite a while if not for the enthusiastic exclamation that fills the room:

"Gale!"

I turn around towards the source to see Dio standing — bouncing would actually be a more apt term to be honest — with an absolutely ecstatic grin on his face. Judging by this reaction, I can see what they mean about him looking up to Hawthorne.

The older youth's smile returns as well, though not before he unceremoniously shoves past me with a quiet mutter: "Put some clothes on."

 _Well fuck you too._  However, I don't feel like putting a damper on the the kid's cheer as it's obvious that this means a lot to him; so I keep my mouth shut and stand back to watch the two greet each other. After they get done embracing — they're actually around the same height, give or take a few inches, but my roommate still lifts our guest up in the process — Hawthorne tousles Dio's hair and remarks with a surprisingly cheerful and caring voice, "It's good to see you too, D."

_I notice you ain't telling the kid to put on a shirt; his pajama pants ain't that much more than my skivvies. Anyways, even if you did, it ain't like your orders have any power here. This is my place, sort-of, and I—_

"Dio!"

—  _did not know there were going to be little kids present. Sonuvabitch…_

Upon hearing the chorus of squeals, I quickly grab my houserobe off the coat rack and wrap it around myself before a torrent of energy rushes through the door and past Hawthorne to slam right into my roommate. That actually causes the kid to topple over, but judging by the grin and laughter he emanates, I suspect it's intentional on his part.

Seriously, after Dio gave me the list of people to send to my folks, I knew that the attending party was a going to be substantial — Hawthorne was a definite, but Ma told me that the rest initially backed out due to "conflicting commitments"; I don't need to guess what the other commitment was and how it no longer is an issue — and that supposedly some of them would be on the young side. However, I was expecting just a couple children in the age range of the lower double digits, not a damn litter showing up.

The youngest and only boy looks to be around five or six, the second youngest — probably Hawthorne's little sister judging by her complexion — is likely about one or two years older than that, and the twin set of redheads have another year added. And at this moment, all four of them mob Dio, who looks like he's playing the part of a wounded elk being taken down by a pack of ravenous wolves.

Once said pack manages to somewhat calm down a bit, my roommate props himself up onto a sitting position with the recalled realization that he's not the only occupant of this dorm. "Ned, this is Gale—"

"We've met."

My and Hawthorne's synched and slightly frigid responses — I don't miss the click signifying a high likelihood of Lucy memorializing the scene of us glaring at each other — seem to take Dio aback a bit before he recovers and says, "Oh… okay. And—"

"Hey," pipes the youngest while pointing at Luce, "it's the hat guy!"

The Corpsman, who's currently perched rather precariously atop the armrest of the couch, simply pipes back with a grin, "Is that Sel I see? Someone's grown up."

Luce's query merely makes the little boy puff up and cross his arms. "It's Seleucus!"

"Oh shut up, Sel!" barks one of the redheads with a shove that causes him to topple over. "You just say that because you can finally pronounce your own name."

Hawthorne looks like he's about to say something, but Dio beats him to the punch. "Jasper," he chides, "that's not nice. And you shouldn't yell like that, Sel."

Despite my roommate not dropping his light attitude in the slightest — there's actually not a single trace of fidgeting to be had from him — the admonishment actually makes both younger kids look ashamed when they murmur, "Sorry, D."

In any case, Luce seems completely unfazed by Seleucus' correction and takes off his cover to ask, "If I give this to you for the day, can I call you Sel?"

That makes the little boy perk up instantly to squeak, "Sure, but only you!" And once that's said, the Corpsman sends the cover flying with a flick of his wrist, and Seleucus manages to catch it in a not-so-graceful manner. "Thanks, hat guy!"

The only one who isn't paying attention to Luce at this moment is the Hawthorne girl, as she's busy staring at me. It honestly is starting to freak me out, and the only thing I can say without coming across as too brusque is, "Something the matter?"

"Your eyes are really funny-looking. That's all."  _Okaay…_

"Posy," Hawthorne mutters, "you can't just go and tell people that their eyes look funny… Even if they do."

I ignore the older Hawthorne's jab and crouch down to view the younger one eye-to-eye. "Reckon it ain't as funny as his hair," I quip while nodding over her shoulder.

Posy notes who I'm talking about and dismisses that with a roll of her eyes. "I've already seen Mr. Luce's hair before. Mama wouldn't let me get those colors though. You think she'll let me change my eyes?"

If her mother wouldn't allow a bit of bioluminescent hair dye, I doubt she'll allow a cosmetic eye transformation. However, I just shrug and say, "Shouldn't hurt to ask. Though reckon you probably wouldn't want to get it the way I did."

"How'd you get it?"

The moment she asks that, I see Luce stiffen a bit — in general, the event that necessitated me getting a replacement eye is something both of us consider best left in a dusty box sitting in the most inaccessible alley off memory lane — but I wave him off to not worry and remark to the little girl, "Monkeys." Big. Nasty. Monkeys.

That response, as simple as it may be, seems to make Posy contemplate for a moment before scrunching up her face. "Monkeys almost got Katniss, Peeta, and Mr. Finnick. And then they got that poor lady who saved Peeta's life. Those were mean monkeys."

I nod in agreement. "Very mean, and these were the same ones; though it happened before the Quell." There's a reason we fed every single last one of those vermin to the rest of the mutts after the Quell had concluded; probably would have done the same to the damn traitor who created them if they hadn't gotten to him first.

"Is that why you have these?" Posy supplements her question by actually running her finger over the right side of my face.

This time, Dio, who seems to have been paying close attention to the conversation, looks utterly mortified at what he probably perceives to be a personal question, not to mention breach of my personal space, and looks about ready to cut in. However, I hold my hand up once again to silence the potential interruption. Yes, Posy's query is a bit on the personal side, but it's not like I'd keep my scars intact if I was ashamed about what people think about them. If anything, so long as they aren't debilitating or completely disfiguring, scars tend to be kept around among those in Central even after undergoing a healing treatment: sometimes they can be interpreted as a mark of valor; sometimes they're a reminder of what  _not_  to do; frankly however, most of us just see them as way to catalog our life's experiences.

"Yep," I confirm, "that's where most of these came from. Same goes for the patches of white."

Another bout of contemplation crosses the little girl's features before she declares, "Yeah, I don't think I want to change my eyes. It doesn't sound fun."

"I don't blame you," I concede while patting her atop the head; she actually giggles at the gesture. That's when I notice that everybody seems to be focused on the two of us — for some strange reason, both Luce and Dio are beaming at me with wide shit-eating grins as if they have just won something — including the new guests in the room: two teens, two youths, and a matron.

There's probably a joke in there somewhere about the ensemble, but I can't be assed to think one up right now.

Like the little kids, I don't know who the two teenage boys are, though I'm more than sure that they are Hawthornes. What I do know is that they're an exercise in contrasts. The one in the sixteen-to-seventeen range is about as dress-code-abiding as anybody from Two and, in contrast to his eldest brother, has an placid expression that veers towards passivity; actually, come to think of it, the expression's disturbingly similar to Brue's default state. On the other hand, the thirteen-to-fourteen-year-old's attire is the most contemporary and fashionable out of everyone here, and he gives the impression as if the slightest bit of caffeine will make him explode. Ironically, it's the younger of the two who's taller; there's probably close to half-a-foot difference between them.

The adults, on the other hand, I recognize and have met before. The redheaded youth is Mercury Anders, who's still probably Hawthorne's girlfriend considering the way they intertwine hands — that prosthesis must be new because I've been used to seeing her with just one arm; actually, I'm definitely sure it's Central-made as well — when she sidles up next to him. Behind Mercury is Marcus Wilson, a scarred ray of sunshine who could pass as being related to Hawthorne; well… if not for the Peacekeeper emblem carved into the handle of his cane. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure the twins are sisters to Mercury, while Seleucus is clearly Wilson's little brother.

Finally, the last individual of note, and the one who should round off Dio's guest list, is Hazelle Hawthorne. She's likely in her early forties yet, if the lines on her face and streaks of gray in her hair are any indication, has the look of someone in their fifties; granted, if I lived in Twelve and had to put up with her eldest son, I'd probably age prematurely as well.

Mercury in general has a fairly agreeable disposition and tends to at least be civil with me, even though she's obviously disagreed with a few things I've said in the past; if anything, she seems to be one of the few people able to calm Hawthorne down whenever he throws a hissy. Wilson… again, pretty much a scrawny Peacekeeper version of Hawthorne. Hazelle's just plain nice to the point of practically being motherly without it coming across as smothering; I actually tend to be careful about what I say around her as it'd honestly be a shame to displease such a pleasant and hardworking individual.

Finally, Dio gets around to introducing everybody; obviously, Luce has already met everyone on Dio's side. Other than those I already caught the names of, I learn that the name of the other twin — I'll probably get her and Jasper confused for a while — is Breccia, while the two teenage boys are Vick and Rory Hawthorne. Almost everyone greets me in a friendly — if anything, Rory's amicable tone, while coming across as genuine and open, is just as unnerving as his nonverbal demeanor — or at least cordial manner… except for Wilson, who doesn't disappoint in the brusque-at-best salutations; I also don't miss that the delivery happens only after Mercury and Hazelle give him a set of motivational glares.

I've just gotten done saying hello in turn when, out of nowhere, Seleucus pipes, "Hoverplane!"

I have to look around to see what he's talking about; the little boy isn't looking outside the widow, and I don't think I have any aerospace pictures or scale models around. However, whatever it is, that single word has gotten the attention of the other three children who are now looking at Dio with expressions of great expectation; at that, he just replies, "I'm not sure… You guys are growing up so fast, and I don't think I'm strong enough."

Wrong answer. "Hoverplane! Hoverplane!" By now, all four children have taken to jumping up and down while squealing in that cacophonous and synchronized chorus of theirs. "Pleeease?"

"Oh, all right…" Even though my roommate rolls his eyes and huffs the concession out in a manner reminiscent of exasperation, it's impossible to miss the wide grin forming on his face. "But  _only_ because somebody's birthday's coming up," he adds while tousling Seleucus' hair.

Before I can ask, Dio goes from sitting to a crouching position, which still doesn't explain what's going on. Though in any case, Posy and Seleucus immediately hop onto his back to peer over his shoulders, and each of the twins latch onto an upper arm.

That's when it begins the dawn on me.  _He isn't seriously going to…_

"You ready?" my roommate asks while looking at the charges clinging on to him. Once they nod, he says, "Okay then. Three… two… one…"

"Liftoff!"

Right as they squeal that phrase, Dio goes from crouching to stan— _… Daaamn…_

I remember the times where my roommate has carried me for some distance. However, there's a slight difference between simply carrying someone — even a full-sized adult — and what he's doing right now.

The combined weight has to be  _at least_ a hundred kilos, yet the kid doesn't even look the slightest bit winded and his muscles barely twitch in protest. If anything, he actually holds his arms  _straight out_  and begins spinning around while making accompanying rumbling noises as his passengers manage to keep a strong hold and squeal in delight.

A series of shutter-induced clicks makes me turn my attention to the couch to see that, in contrast to those from Dio's household looking upon the scene with smiles on their faces, the Central folk are staring at him in a slackjawed manner; I'll be the first to admit that I'm probably doing the same thing and wouldn't be surprised if all five of us are making internal bets — I wager two more minutes — as to when the kid will finally tire out.

Except those two minutes pass and my roommate shows no sign of dropping his cargo or tiring. If anything, the only element that seems to hinder him is the size of our dorm because, in due time, he rushes out into the common room — still without a shirt, mind you, despite the high likelihood of the outside starting to be filled with strangers — to continue what I assume is his mimicry of an aerial transport out there; all the while, I can hear his passengers egging him on to go faster.

In the wake of their departure, a couple minutes pass before Joe decides to be the one to break the silence. "I… uh… I don't think hoverplanes make that sound."

"Yeah…" Brue adds, "there's… um… more of a screeching quality to them."

We're such great conversationalists.

Before that discussion can be dragged on for much longer — we manage to bring up the subject of the difference in noise between a gunship and interceptor — Dio comes rushing back in with everyone still clinging on; I'm honestly just as impressed with the children's ability to keep a hold for so long.

After another set of clicks go off, I stare at the camera-wielding source, who stares right back. It doesn't escape me that Lucy has been practically fixated on Dio the entire time, for reasons that elude me, and it looks like it hasn't escaped her that said fact hasn't escaped me judging by the way her ears are starting to gain a darker and reddish hue to them. What has just transpired doesn't seem to have escaped Luce's attention either considering that a wide grin is breaking across his face as he begins whispering something into his sister's ear. I just shake my head at that and refocus my attention to main subject at hand.

Finally, the kid slows to a halt — he still doesn't look the least bit tired — and eventually kneels down so that the little beasts are able to disembark. The moment they let go, all four of them immediately envelope Dio in a crushing hug.

The scene for some reason makes me hearken back to him telling us about how much he wants offspring of his own; in all honestly, I don't doubt that he'd be a great dad.

Suddenly a squeak and following thud causes me, along with everyone else, to stare back towards the couch. Lo and behold, instead of being on his previous spot on the armrest, Luce is currently curled up in a ball on the ground and busy… nursing himself; it may just be me, but I also think I hear a tiny keening sound emanating from him.

"Luce, what happened?" Despite Dio's exclaimed query, I think I have a good idea exactly what the source of the Corpsman's current predicament is.

It's all the more confirmed in the way that the two remaining guys are carefully putting as much distance between themselves — Joe's slowly backing away with hands raised in placation, and Brue's scooting as far as possible to the opposite side of the couch while shielding himself — and a very flustered Lucy; she may be sitting in an otherwise stoic and prim manner, but there's no missing the blush on her face, lips pursed in a thin line, slight twitch afflicting the temple, or how she's clenching and unclenching her fist. And I have a good feeling that it's probably something idiotic that the idiot said which earned his sister's ire.

Still…  _not cool, bitch…_

"Oh, nothing really," Luce gasps as he sort of sits up to lean against the couch. "Just… may have mentioned—"

"— how there's just a few things we don't vocalize," the Bitch finishes with a brittle smile punctuating her words. "Right,  _dear brother_?" she asks while patting him atop the head.

"Uh… yeah, sis; whatever you say. Though—" Lucy's hand goes from patting to grabbing a fistful of short — but not short enough — multicolored hair. "… nevermind…"

And to think that these two are going to be representing Central in official capacity tonight…

Then again, it's not like the place has ever had a fuzzy reputation among the ignorant masses of rubes, and I doubt that the Stone siblings are going to change opinions one way or another. So if anyone has a problem, they can go take it up with our mutts.

Before long, it's finally decided that pajama pants aren't going to be the main article of clothing for the day — as comfy as they may be — and in a rare bout of initiative, Dio calls first dibs on the shower. In the meantime, I manage to keep the kids entertained by bringing out Belle for them to handle; I don't miss that Hawthorne tenses up a bit the moment at the sight of her, but he makes no further move to step in probably since the kids don't harbor the same hesitation.

That doesn't stop him from putting a damper on the atmosphere in other ways. "Bannon, we need to talk."

At the sound of his gruff voice, I look up to see not only him looming over me, but also Wilson, Mercury, and Hazelle standing expectantly at the door; I have a sure feeling about what this is going to be about and know there's no point in dismissing the demand for a conversation. So after making sure Belle is in trustworthy enough hands — even if Lucy wasn't present as a practical lookout, Rory actually seems to be a natural at handling the mutt — I follow Gale Hawthorne out into the common room, which is starting to be fairly populated with unfamiliar individuals despite it still being fairly early in the morning.

The whole point of Family Day is sort of an open house for the program and university, so free transportation and lodging is given to family members of the PRO participants; I wouldn't be surprised if this is the only way that some are able to visit the Capitol. In any case, I don't miss that a good chunk of my classmates are a bit baffled at the presence of a key figure of the Rebellion being at the entrance to my and Dio's dorm; Natt especially looks like he's having a bit of an existential crisis to my satisfaction.

However, Hawthorne pretty much ignores the presence of the other people except for what I assume is a brief scan to make sure they're all out of earshot. So once the other three of Dio's adult guests join us — honestly, I'm not too comfortable being surrounded like this with my back to the wall — and the door shuts, the former rebel rounds on me:

"Look, Bannon," he snarls, "I don't like you."

I'm extremely tempted to mention that what he  _does_  seem to like is to state the obvious, yet vocalizing that thought would probably be an unwise move. So thus I settle with a simple, "Get in line."

"Considering that we first met not too long after the end of the Rebellion, I'd say I'm awfully close to the front."

Did… did Hawthorne just parry my retort? I honestly can't tell if he's actually starting to develop a sense of humor. If anything, the possibility of such a prospect bugs the hell out of me.

Unfortunately neither of us can add anything more to our civil discussion, since Mercury puts a placating hand on her boyfriend's chest and pushes him back a bit before giving me a strained smile: "Gale's just saying that despite our… disagreements, we're grateful that D has someone looking out for him. He's said wonderful things about you."

"For reasons that escape o—OW!"

With a discrete stomp on Wilson's toes being the only acknowledgement of his muttered interruption, the redhead continues to explain, "It's just that  _certain people_  aren't that well-versed at conveying gratitude."

"We're just concerned," Hazelle adds; to my satisfaction, she cuts off her son in the process. "You have probably seen how easily he trusts others, despite all that has happened."

"And you're worried that I'd take advantage of that trust."

Despite the uneasy looks on Mercury and Hazelle's faces at my statement, the two males don't share the said uneasiness. "Why shouldn't we be worried?" Wilson retorts. "Even without your bloodstained past, you haven't shown yourself to be anything more than an utter prick."

"Mentioning bloodstained pasts is pretty rich coming from a Peacekeeper and the Butcher."

This time, neither female attempts to mediate, but rather shake their heads at me. Not that it matters as, to my dismay, I seem to have failed in pushing any buttons with my quip; sure both Hawthorne and Wilson are angry, but it's no more than their usual default mode and there's no sign of being taken aback.

"Is that the best you got? Yes, I was in the service of the Capitol, and we all know what Gale's… done. However, there's a difference between us and you: we try to make amends," the former Peacekeeper growls while poking me in the chest. "Gale has practically slaved away these past few years in an effort to right his past wrongs. And while I consider the Peacekeeper Corps to be part of my identity, that doesn't mean I'm not filled with remorse as to how we were the enforcers of Snow's will.

"You, on the other hand… do you even have any regrets in making those mutts for the Games?"

"Not one bit." I know it doesn't make me look good in front of them, but there's no point in lying. "Wait — scratch that — there's one regret I have."

"And that's?"

"That my creations were being utilized in some spectacle just to entertain the Capitolites and supposedly pacify the districts. Little good the latter did, eh?" I note while nudging Hawthorne with my elbow.

He's not amused. "Unbelievable…"

"Yep, I'm a remorseless monster. Of course, the kid says otherwise, even after I informed him about my past work. Yep, he knows," I add, considering the look of shock that has crept up on all four faces, "and again, he seems insistent looking for good in me or whatever. But you all know better. And I won't deny that I ain't exactly the warmest person to be around—"

"There a point to this, Bannon?" Hawthorne snaps.

"Yes, there is. Because, setting aside my past and supposed pricky attributes, I'd like to ask you something: have I ever come across as manipulative or deceitful? Be honest." All I have to do is stand back — well, sort-of considering there's still a wall to my back — and watch as they go through bouts of realization. To my satisfaction, this time Hawthorne and Wilson appear to be grasping at straws judging by their frustrated expression. After a minute has passed, I allow a wide grin to form. "That's what I thought.

"Oh, I ain't saying I'm averse to lying, power plays, or harming others; it comes with the territory. I'm just saying that, even if screwing others over through deceit didn't veer so disgustingly close to a breach of hospitality, I ain't exactly the most charismatic guy. I mean, come on, you reckon people will just fall willy-nilly for my wiles?"

It may just be a trick of the lighting, but I swear that the corners of Hawthrone's mouth quirk upward just the slightest; at the very least, he and Wilson give matching snorts. However, neither of them are the one who say this: "Probably not most people, but this is Dio we're talking about. I'd venture so far as to say that his trust actually extends to you. Am I right?"

I don't know why, but Mercury's words cause me to find a corner of the ceiling a fine thing to focus on. "Yeah… you're right," I murmur with a sigh. "He's a good kid."

"Better than you," states Hawthorne, though this time there's no fire there.

"Or you," I reply with an equal lack of venom. "Hell, it ain't even measured in relative terms.

"And it's why if you can't trust me with anything else, at least trust me in the fact that I have no intention of betraying him. Besides," I add, "if you want to approach this from a logical point-of-view, what benefit would doing such a thing give anyways? It ain't like there's anything of his in terms of material or power that I have any interest in extorting, and I have no interest at all in pissing you off. Make sense?"

"Still think you're a bad influence," Wilson mutters.

Now  _that_  I can't help but roll my eyes at. "Because all those years at the Career academy created a lovely fountain of virtues for him to bask under; if he was able to live fifteen years under those excuses for gene donors and still be as ridiculously idealistic as he is, I seriously doubt that having me as a roommate for a year is going affect things."

This time, it's Hazelle who raises an eyebrow, and I don't miss the disapproval in her voice as she asks, "A year?"

"Well… it's only this year that we need to live in the school residences, and I have no desire to spend the next three here. So I'm going be getting my own place and… Son of a bitch," I mutter upon the realization of what I'm just saying. "Wait, I thought you don't even like or trust me to be in his company."

"I don't," Hawthorne growls; however, he then follows that up with a sigh: "But  _he_  does. And I can't think of anybody else for him to reside with."

"Well… we still have a good chunk of the school year left, so we'll figure things out when we get to it. Fair enough?"

"… It's… acceptable for now. Though I'm warning you…"

"Yeah yeah… step out of line… bad things will happen… the usual. Anything else?"

They seem to appraise me for the longest time, with the two guys looking especially predatory at this moment, before Mercury finally says, "No, that's about it. We just wanted to make sure everybody is on the same page. Right?" A jab of her elbows into Hawthorne and Wilson's sides elicits a grudging grunt and nod from both of them.

"Excellent. In that case…" This part I'm not exactly looking forward to, and there's a good chance it may set off the already-volatile former rebel. "I probably need to mention something important."

Despite trying to keep the atmosphere light, it's not hard to see how everyone tenses up. "What is it?" asks Wilson. Okay, he'll probably be a problem too.

"Well, since we've mentioned taking advantage of trust and manipulation and all that wonderful stuff—"

"Get. To. The. Point."

"—there's a good chance that Jesse Dubois may be an issue."

It doesn't take long for everyone to connect the dots as their expressions shift from recognition, to realization, to… either horror or rage; no points for guessing who exhibits what.

"Is… is this the same 'girlfriend' he was mentioning last month?" Hawthorne breathes. I don't even get a chance to respond as his voice rises into a snarl: "AND YOU JUST LET HIM?"

"Hey," I snap back, "I may be the kid's roommate, but I ain't his nanny. I didn't even know who she was until a week after their… um… first encounter. And I told her to back off after finding out. However, even though she told me she found no use for him, that's no guarantee."

Mercury must have pieced everything together from there, because she immediately narrows her eyes. "This was to get to you, wasn't it."

"See? This is what I'm talking about!" her boyfriend rants before turning on me. "You may not have anything against Dio himself, but that doesn't mean that you aren't a liability in different ways. Again, the only reason we tolerate you is because you're the only one capable of the job and because it would probably hurt him at this point to separate you two."

This time though, I don't even bothering correcting him. Because, I know it's true. The likelihood of the kid being caught in the crossfire during a corporate power play is much higher than if he never knew me. However that is long past now. Even if he was to be removed from my presence, that no longer guarantees a full severing of connection between him and me. In fact… "Aw hell…"

"Now what?"

"Even if the kid never knew me, there's the fact that he's connected to you. And sooner or later, I reckon they'll find out." It's no secret that the Dubois family has just as much contempt towards Hawthorne — something about him being a supposed traitor to the rebel cause — as they do towards Panem Dynamics. Considering all the various threats in Two, the Hawthorne household probably does have precautions put in place for everyone, but still.

The former rebel realizes the implication of that as he visibly pales along with everyone else. However, that's immediately replaced by a dangerous expression, and his voice comes out in a low and almost imperceptible hiss: "If she hurts him again, Dubois Enterprises will find what I did to the Nut child's play compared to what I'll do to them."

For once, I'm in full agreement with him.

Surprisingly, Mercury and Hazelle actually manage to steer the conversation into tension-diffusing small talk; the former goes over the plans for today and the latter asking about my family. Just in time as well.

"Ned!"

The moment my name's called out, I immediately trot over to the source of said call and give her a hug.

"Hi Ma," I breathe with a grin as we embrace. "Hi Pa."

~oOo~

A couple minutes in, and I'm already stifled.

"Yes, Ma, of course everything's fine." As I've said for who-knows-how-many-times already. Seriously, I love my folks; I really do. But I swear that my mother wants to reattach the umbilical somehow… if not install surveillance equipment to monitor my every move.

"You're mother's just concerned," Pa notes. "We can't keep you out of trouble like in West City, and some of your ideas don't resonate as well with the locals as they do in Central."

"I know that," I mutter. "Ain't like I've broken any laws." Seriously, there's still nothing in the law books about running on rooftops, so I'm good.

Ma looks unconvinced. "Oh, and what's this?" To punctuate her query, she lifts my chin with her hand and thumbs the wound on my lip; all the while giving it a critical glare.

I nudge her hand away to explain: "Got careless in a sparring match… which, I should add, was legal with no money riding on it."

"And how are your studies?" she asks, undeterred. "I hope you aren't just using this time in the Capitol to just cruise for bars."

"School's going alright," I growl in exasperation. Is this a visit or a damn interrogation? "I'm perfectly capable of balancing work and pleasure thank you very much. Anyways, how was your trip to Europa?"

"Son, if you think you're clever enough to change the subject without us knowing, the Capitol must have scrambled your brains," my dad rumbles before conceding, "But we enjoyed the trip. Our hosts were hospitable, and we'll be exporting within a few months. We even had time to travel around."

"The Alps are even more magnificent than the mountains here in the Capitol," my mother adds with a sigh. "And yes, we got you a few things, but you aren't getting them yet."

"Fine," I huff. "By the way, I ain't the only one here." To hammer home the point, I nod towards the individuals who were grilling me earlier; Hawthorne and Wilson seem to be wearing identical smug smirks as they look upon me…

If the matching look on their faces is any indication, my folks are probably not done with their own set of grilling, but still they greet everybody else with their characteristic warmth while we move back into the room. The warmth increases when the younger guests automatically run up to greet them, and they don't stop mentioning how Hazelle should have introduced earlier.

"Are you sure it's okay for them to attend?" Hazelle asks as things quiet down. "I don't want to impose."

"Nonsense," Ma notes with a dismissive wave. "If my son can attend this event, so can these wonderful children. Speaking of which… we have something to start the day for you all. Vector, dear?"

At my mom's prompting, Pa opens up his briefcase and takes out a box — the top of the box seems to be adorned with various seals ranging from animals to color patterns — to set it in front of the little kids. When he gives the go-ahead to them, Posy and Seleucus open up the box to reveal an assortment of chocolate truffles, candy bars of varying grades, and colorful marzipan figurines; just the sight of them is enough to make all those children's eyes widen and light up like flares.

However, before the youngest ones are able to reach their paws out, Rory closes the box.

Despite their objections, the middle Hawthorne doesn't budge and simply responds in that unnerving calm of his: "Not until Dio and Eli join us."

 _Wait… who?_  "Uh…" I note, "I don't recall any 'Eli' on the invitation."

"He's not going to be attending. For him, this visit's mostly to spend time with Delly," Rory explains before giving a puzzled and concerned look at the door. "Still… he should be here right now to at least say hi to Dio."

While I'd like to mention that young Hawthorne's statement doesn't say much about that person except that he's a "he" and has some sort of connection to Delly Cartwright, that's put on the backburner when the other mentioned individual decides to stride out of the bathroom. Perhaps due to the presence of the little ones, Dio seems to have decided to do most of his dressing in the bathroom this time; that doesn't stop the fact that he's not only still lacking a shirt… but is also too busy focusing on dabbing away stray remnants of water from his face and torso to notice that our room has gained a couple new people.

Granted, when my roommate  _does_  notice my folks, he freezes on the spot with that now-typical wide-eyed expression of a deer caught in the crosshairs; his face can't seem to decide whether to either expand the redness darkening his ears or lack of color showing up on his rapidly-draining face. Really, I don't know why the kid should be so mortified; I mean, less than half-an-hour earlier he was running around strangers wearing nothing but pajama pants.

It's fortunate for him that my folks aren't the type to focus on someone's source of embarrassment. So without any prompting, my mom walks forward with that smile of hers that tends to put children at ease. "Ah, so you must be Dio. Ned's told us so much about you."

A few seconds still pass before Dio finally snaps out of it. "Oh! Uh… really?" Somewhat. At least he has enough sense to take her hand while attempting to compose himself. "I mean, it's an honor to meet you, ma'am. You too, sir," he stammers when shifting to take my dad's handshake.

"You don't have to be so formal with us."

I can't help it that Pa's chuckled statement makes me snort, "Good luck with that." When that earns matching stern looks from my folks, I don't back down, but instead turn my attention to Dio. "Kid, I dare you to call my folks by their first names."

The result… well let's just say a puppy with a mouthful of peanut butter is less awkward, and I finally tell the kid to relax before he ends up injuring himself.

Ignoring my little experiment, Ma states, "Anybody who is able to tolerate being within proximity of our son's… charming nature is good in our book."  _I'm flattered…_

"If you can forgive me for being frank, ma'am, I don't see what there is to tolerate," Dio states back with one of those surprising moments of conviction. "It's been my honor to have Ned as a friend-ly… roommate." Aaand that's where said conviction crashes and burns. If the kid thinks I missed his little backtrack, he has another thing coming. From the looks of surprise on the faces of my folks and Dio's family — to  _my_  surprise, the Central guys don't seem to share that shock, and Luce has that stupid grin on his face again — they haven't missed it either.

"Well," Pa notes while ruffling my hair, "the simple fact that our boy here isn't even bothering to hide his natural accent in your presence says a lot to us."

"Though I do wish some of your habits would transfer to him," my mom tuts while looking around our room.  _Oh fuck, not this again…_

Dio hasn't caught on as to where this is inevitably going judging from his obvious confusion. "Ma'am?"

"This is your side of the room, isn't it?" she asks while gesticulating towards his orderly desk and bunk. By now, Hawthorne and Wilson have realized the subject, and it shows in how their matching expressions of smugness are threatening to overtake their features.

"Uh… yes, ma'am."

"My son on the other hand…" The curtain to my bunk is lifted for a bit before she allows it to fall back down. Not that it offers any reprieve as my desk is the next thing for her to focus on. "My son seems to think that 'orderly chaos' is the way to live."

"Well it works for me," I growl through gritted teeth, "and everything here is sanitary."

It's usually about this point where I'm subjected to a lengthy — not to mention humiliating considering the presence of others — lecture about the importance of diligence in daily routines. That's why I almost breathe a sigh of relief when Ma has to answer her comm; "almost" being a key word considering that the tune that's ringing signifies this being a security call.

"Security tells me that there's a fight among some of the teenagers outside, and they are asking if they should intervene." As if to punctuate her statement, we can hear a collective set of muffled yells and blows coming from outside the door.

"A fight?" Hawthorne asks. The funny thing is that, while concerned, he doesn't look the least bit surprised when taking a look out the door. "Aw hell…" If anything, he actually sounds exasperated rather than worried and gives a meaningful glower at his younger brother.

Rory cues in with a sigh of his own: "I'll get it…"

As the middle Hawthorne runs out the room, the elder one gives an assurance to my mom: "There's no reason to worry, Iris. Just a little schoolyard scuffle, and my brother has this all under control."

"Are you sure?"

"This isn't the first time something like this has happened, and Rory's really good at damage control."

"Then I'll take your word for it," Ma states before making the call for security to stand down but be at the ready.

In the meantime, I decide to go outside to see what the fuss is about. What greets me appears to be total pandemonium, and for a minute there it seems that the teenagers are doing a reenactment of how those Games bloodbaths usually went. Right in the middle of the turbulent crowd one of the Twelvers is curled up on the ground and trying to staunch a bloody nose — it occurs to me that the others, who are nursing scuffs and scrapes of their own, all used to comprise Natt's merry band of bigots; for whatever reason that I really don't give a rat's ass about, there was some sort of falling out between them and Natty Rebel — and standing above him is a tall blond boy playing the part of a Career.

While not unscathed himself, the blond's clearly winning and willing to continue the beatdown; that is, if not for Rory restraining him — the middle Hawthorne's muttering something in his taller counterpart's ear — and Delly being in the middle in an attempt to calm things down. It's then I realize that, while the physique of our RA and this newcomer are about as different as day and night — seriously, the strawberry-blond boy can't be older than sixteen or seventeen, but he's clearly hit six feet already with all of that mass lean muscle wrapped in a sun-burnished package; a stark contrast to Delly's average height, indoor complexion, curvy build, and flaxen ringlets — they still share some facial structure similarities as well as a crystalline shine in their pale blue irises; granted, the crystal of the boy's eyes is of a more frigid composition.

"So… you must 'Eli'." Maybe it's because of the cheerful way it's chirped, or it could be its irrelevant nature in opposition to the situation, but my greeting puts a halt to the commotion. Still, I pretend there's no commotion in the first place and add, "Cartwright I presume?"

The boy doesn't answer my question but rather decides to simply glower at me.

"He's my little brother," Delly states to cut into the silence.  _Little?_  My amusement at that description of the younger Cartwright must be showing, because his glower shifts into the type of glare that melts steel, and all the elder one does is roll her eyes and sigh, "This really isn't the best time to be a smartass, Ned."

"You kidding?" I chortle. "I reckon there ain't no better time. Anyways, looks like he shares your people skills and sunny disposition."

As I'm quipping that, Rory mutters something that causes the glare to shift back down into a suspicious scowl.

"Keep out of this, Bannon," my Twelver classmate spits through his bloodied… well, everything at this point.

"Or what?" I sneer while turning to him. "Because I got a security detail that's feeling twitchy. And unlike my roommate, they don't react to belligerence with a nervous smile; they… well let's just say they take their job seriously." Of course  _now_  everybody notices the suited men standing at key points around the room; then again, keeping low-key is one of their skill sets. In any case, their presence is enough to shut everyone up.

Well, almost everyone. "C-can handle this."

The growled statement causes me to raise my eyebrows and turn towards the source: "Oh so you  _do_  talk." 

Granted, if I'm hearing things right, it's pretty clear why Eli Cartwright keeps speaking at a minimum. However, there's an alertness in his eyes suggesting that the thick and clumsy speech isn't from dull wits. "Wuh-when I have to." 

"I see… Care to explain?"

"F-f-fucks called me t-traitor," he grits out. "Called Peeta traitor… c-called  _Katniss_  traitor."

"Because you're sticking up for worthless Careers," the bloodied Twelver retorts. Now I have a good idea about the subject in question, and my fists clench at the thought; a sidelong glance at Natt only earns me a shrug in return. "You even dress like one. After all that's ha—"

"DON'T YOU DARE!" Eli interrupts with a scream. I _was_ going to help out by mentioning that his clothing is too much of a mix of Two and Twelve styles to convincingly pass as the former, but I guess he can handle this. "DON'T F-FUCKING DARE! Y-YOU STILL HAVE… still huh-have…" 

"I guess that makes you an even bigger traitor then," my classmate sneers before looking at Rory. "But I don't why your boyfriend's here."

If that comment's supposed to ruffle feathers, it fails. Though while he retains that calm and collected amicability, the middle Hawthorne's response is decidedly chilly: "I'm here to say hi to my brother."

For once, confusion trumps the asshole's features. "'Brother'? What brother?"

"The so called 'worthless Career'.  _That_  brother," an even more frigid voice cuts in, and as Gale Hawthorne looms into view — How the hell was he able to approach us so quietly? — said asshole's expression gets replaced by terror. "And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's someone screwing with my brothers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with my other stories, Marcus Wilson isn't necessarily an OC but rather an expansion (such as the connection to Gale) upon the guy who confronted Katniss at the Nut.
> 
> Yep, Delly's brother has slightly different social… and speech… skills than his older sister; the bombing didn't help. And yes, there's probably some irony that Rory Hawthorne's his best friend.


	16. Ain't a Skirt

Color me disappointed.

I was seriously expecting…  _hoping even_ … for Hawthorne to go all Butcher-y on those rube-tastic bigots. Judging by the look in his eyes, it's clear that the former rebel wanted to do something entertaining.

But  _nooo_ … It's no longer "proper" this day and age. Something about "new standards" and "accountability" and "human rights violations" or some shit. I mean, come on; Hawthorne wasn't even in uniform at that moment, and it's not like there's any shiny reputation for him to tarnish. Granted, seeing the formerly-haughty rubes become gibbering wrecks just in his presence — okay, maybe there were a few thinly-veiled threats lightly tossed around for effect — was entertainment in itself.

When the parents made their indignation known, Hawthorne then proceeded to shut them down by asking whether they moved back to Twelve before or after its rebuilding — surprise… surprise… they muttered "after" — and followed up by asking which district was the major contributor in its revitalization; he didn't budge until he had them say it clearly.

In the end, Hawthorne also made a point of recalling that, for all their vitriol against Two, neither Twelver bothered to go out into the warzone despite their eligibility at the time. Considering how the beginning of this semester involved them bragging about fighting in the Rebellion and storming the Capitol,  _that_  was a hilarious bit of news; it was made all the better when those blue falcons proceeded to throw their Thirteener comrades under the train by mentioning that they didn't fight either. Natt found the news… less amusing; as I closed the dorm door, the last thing I saw was him storming towards the idiots with a cold expression promising nothing pleasant. Sucks to be them.

Granted, I'm not too sure that I'm a fan of the situation at hand around me, and after getting done with a quick shower, I voice my thoughts in as appropriate of a manner as possible:

"Is this a dorm or a tenement?"

I mean, yeah our dorm's spacious. However, cramming nineteen people — on the bright side, a portion of them are the little kids perched atop Dio's bunk right now, even if they look like cats ready to pounce upon us — into a single room still isn't what I'd call optimal.

Luce doesn't even pause in mending Eli — the boy may have a bruised cheek and bloodied lip marring his face, but you should see his opponents — to mutter in his usual bedside manner, "Ned, be nice."

"Hey, last I recall, everybody else here except for one is a guest. So it's only fair that I get to state the facts," I assert. In response, the younger Cartwright demonstrates that his injuries don't stop him from swiveling an eye around to give me a caustic glare; whatever his intention is, it's not very effective. "Don't give me that look, Mumbles. It's my bed you're sitting on."

He considers my words for a moment before grunting and focusing his attention back on Luce.  _Yeah, that's what I thought._

After Eli came back into our room — okay, forcibly maneuvered here by Delly and Rory is probably be more apt; the boy was ready to continue where he left off, and something tells me that this isn't the first time he's gotten into a scrape — he went back into keeping more or less on the silent side. Granted, he did have enough sense to deferentially introduce himself to my folks — if he was concerned about them viewing him poorly due to his near-incoherent speech, they put that to rest — and proceeded to greet Dio with the sort of warmth that signified a surprising level of familiarity; it didn't stop him from brusquely brushing off the kid's exclamation of concern at his injuries. Of course, the one person the younger Cartwright couldn't brush off was Luce, who immediately told him to take a seat — it just had to be on my bed; it couldn't be on the couch or Dio's desk — and be looked at; I'm still trying to figure out how the Corpsman's able to put patients at ease and get them obedient.

"Any more cases that need looked at?" Luce mutters. Have I mentioned that his impartiality when it comes to treating people can be quite silly sometimes?

Brue glances out the door and notes, "If there are any left, I don't see them."

"What a shame…"  _Wait…_

"Is… is that sarcasm I hear?" I ask, dumbfounded. Seriously, the only person whom I think is less sarcastic than Luce is Dio… and not by much at that.

The Corpsman only offers a small shrug. Then again, while Luce may be serious about maintaining impartiality in the treatment of others, it doesn't mean that it extends to his personal views; he just doesn't let it get in the way of his professionalism. So if the enemy or asshole — or enemy asshole — is unavailable to be treated, he's not going to go out of his way for them in the same way that he goes out of his way for those he legitimately cares about. That's assuming he isn't engaging said enemy assholes in combat; if that's the case… well let's just say that more often than not, there's zero chance he's going to have to apply medical help for anyone but his allies afterwards.

 _To switch tracks a bit…_  "So…" I note while hauling myself up to perch myself next to Rory and Eli, "I can guess that you two at least know each other from your district. But that doesn't explain how Mumbles here knows Dio."

The two exchange a glance between each other before the younger Hawthorne states matter-of-factly, "He lives with us in Two; been living with us since a couple years ago."

"And what, he's your boyfriend?" Unlike before with the bigots, my causal query actually flusters Rory a bit — well… at the very least, he's taking on a shade closer to the speckled markings of the lizard perched on his shoulder — and Eli increases the intensity of his scowl.

However, before those boys can respond, I jab a thumb in the direction of Luce and Joe while growling, "You honestly think a little thing like that would be a negative point with me?"

"Didn't expect you to mind," Rory notes with a shrug. "Even if you did, I've been secure about myself for years. … Even though I had to frequently bloody my knuckles in Twelve and keep my head down in Thirteen."

"Same here," Eli grunts.

"However, just because we live together and sleep in the same bedroom—"

"And the same _bed…_ " Vick's muttered clarification is quiet, but not that quiet. 

Eli may shift his glare to the youngest Hawthorne boy, but I notice that he doesn't actually deny anything. Neither does Rory, who just waves dismissively and continues on as if uninterrupted: "It doesn't mean we're together in the way you're asking." 

"Hey, I ain't one to give two hoots about your degree of closeness," I state with a shrug before glancing at Eli. "Just reckon it a tad peculiar that you'd willingly move to Two considering… well… you know…" Hey, I'm not  _completely_  insensitive.

The boy actually looks a bit thoughtful for once and visibly mulls things for a bit before responding: "C-couple years ago would agree. Hated them." That statement's actually followed up with an apologetic glance towards Mercury and Wilson. Judging by the casual way in which they wave it off, it's clear that little fact's old and forgiven news. "D-didn't want to move into Capitol with sis b-but no choice."

"Do you disagree even that it was better than staying in Thirteen?" asks Delly — the query gets a shake of the head from her brother — before she turns to me. "When I got a job here, I brought Eli with me. At first he really loathed it here—"

"Still don't like it."

" _But_  he learned that the people living here aren't monsters. That most aren't even like the ones he saw on TV. It wasn't long before he realized the same about Two even before moving there, and you can see it wasn't hard for him to settle in."

I don't even have to ask when Eli states, "Want head start b-before enlistment." Ah, so he's a cadet. After Two's transition into the new era, the program's one of the few things that survived; of course it goes without saying that the whole brainwashing-to-support-tyranny-and-child-killing part didn't make it through.

"Makes sense," I note before pointing towards the two boys' right wrists. "And I reckon  _those_  are part of standard cadet uniforms as well?" Because braided around each wrist is a matching set of bracelets.

They look at each other before Eli grunts, "Within regs…"

"Uh… huh…"

Rory finally seems to have enough of my questioning as he sighs, "We've been friends since as far as I can remember. That's why I made them…" he trails off before chuckling with a shake of the head. "I can't even remember when I made those or how many times they've been modified."

"Six years," grunts Eli. "Friends longer. First to approach and tolerate me. Peet don't count," he adds while sending a glance towards Delly.

"Also, there's Prim _…_ " As Rory says that, his voice takes on a melancholy note. I also notice his older brother looking pointedly at his feet while Mercury puts a hand on his shoulder.

The younger Cartwright also looks down and gives a small sigh: "Yeah."

"If we're being honest, you're probably the first one — not counting family — who was actually willing to get to know me," the middle Hawthorne counters, "and I wouldn't wish it any other way."

For the first time, I actually see a grin appear on Eli's face as he clasps Rory's hand. "Same here."

Of course, I'm the type who likes to put a damper on such moments. "Well, why doesn't Dio have one?"

While my roommate looks a bit distressed at my accusatory tone, Rory doesn't even pause to state, "Like I said, family doesn't count."

_Huh… point._

~oOo~

It turns out that most of our guests have never even been to the Capitol before. So once we finally vacate the room the rest of the morning is spent around the Northern Boardwalk so that the kids … and the Central guys… can play near the lakeshore and at the amusement park rides. The Cartwrights also accompany us even though they are still going to go their separate way for dinner; doesn't stop my folks and Rory from trying to work something out for later, though I don't catch specifics.

I do get a kick out of how flustered at least the older guests are when brought to one of the nicer establishments in the area; it's just a simple rooftop joint specializing in Ezo cuisine, though the reactions of some of them to raw fish is even more amusing. After the bill is footed, you can just see the Twelvers and Twofers trying to calculate the debt that they feel is owed. Their bemusement increases significantly when, after swinging by our dorm and hotel to pick up the clothes to wear later tonight, we're driven straight to Stygia; all the more since we get the complex to ourselves for the afternoon.

Fortunately, the feeling of awkwardness — ratcheted up when teens and adults gets the spa treatment — dissipates when the little ones express their glee at the pools provided, and soon everyone gets settled in. In one corner, my folks and Hazelle are having an amicable conversation. In the shallows, the youngins splash around under the supervision of the younger Hawthorne boys. In the prep rooms, Dio and Lucy are being worked on under the supervision of Espin and Tracy respectively; we still don't know what their outfits are going to look like, but they seem excited. And here… well here, we youths are simply trying to drown each other.

Though while I could honestly do this all day — despite Luce's keenness on playing Dunk-the-Ginger — the fact of the matter is that this isn't the main event. So, before the afternoon is even able to get to the late side, we scatter back to our rooms to prep for the evening.

After making sure that everything's in place, tossing in the requisite tip, and putting on some finishing touches from the fragrance cabinet, I head towards the meeting spot in the atrium.

When I get there, it's clear that I'm one of the last to join the group. The only people missing are Dio, Lucy, and Luce; while the first two are still being worked on, I don't know what's taking the latter. In any case, nobody has noticed my arrival yet, so I take the time to look at everybody.

Most are in their nicest civil attire and dresses, with only a few exceptions. Said exceptions are those in uniform.

I suppose the new government's not in the mood to design a new Army officer uniform. Because it really isn't that different from that of a Head Peacekeeper or Thirteen commander; a different insignia and sword, tweaks here and there, and color scheme changed from white-slash-gray to black with gold trim doesn't change that fact. Granted, unlike the Head Peacekeepers I've seen, there's practically nothing adorning Hawthorne's uniform; the number of ribbons, badges, and medals combined can be counted on hand, and there are soldiers enlisted after the war who are more decorated than him.

Even less has been changed for the cadet uniform — the only difference from its Games-era predecessor are the symbols and now-black color scheme — which Rory and Eli wear. 

At least the Army's updating their battle dress. While the current uniform at the moment is still based on Thirteen gear, it's currently being phased into something actually resembling Central's GCCUUs.

"Nice skirt."

Eli's voice jolts me from my observations, and I see him wearing a mocking smirk. When the others notice, a few join in chortling.

If that's supposed to embarrass me, they have another thing coming. "It ain't a skirt."

Besides, my district isn't the one that favors man-dresses like the ankle-length robes Wilson, Vick, and Sel are wearing. In Vick's case, his robes are actually in a more contemporaneous cut than traditional for Twofers. The design to Wilson's robes isn't that traditional either considering that it's made in a way to blatantly homage his Peacekeeper background; pretty damn gutsy even if this is the Capitol and not someplace like Eleven.. 

"Sure looks like one."  _Oh, don't you start too, Brue._

"Well, it's called a kilt," I shoot back, "and guys have been wearing them for at least a millennium already from what I hear. The Celts still wear it as their national outfit."

"Still, what made  _you_  decide to wear it?"

"Let's see… maybe because I prefer something with a wider range of movement than trousers," — Unlike the cadets, it's not like I have a uniform that gives me an excuse to wear shorts in a formal event. — "which is allowed by my heritage."

I'm not even bullshitting about the heritage part. A diplomatic event my folks and I attended offered lineage tracing as a complimentary service; in general, many in this nation seem to be gaining some interest as to where they come from. So it's confirmed that my maternal half's cleanly descended down from somewhere in the Celtic region. My paternal ancestry's a bit on the vague side though, and all we know that it's partly from somewhere in Parthia; considering that one of the nation's slogans is "From the Euphrates to the Indus", that really doesn't narrow things down at all. The other part from Pa's side stems from somewhere in the Pacific… which also doesn't narrow things much.

In any case, the results of the lineage tracing weren't vague enough to not offer inspiration. So while the basic form of the kilt itself is Celtic, the embroidery method adorning my vest and kilt invokes Parthia to shine gold against the black worsted wool — sourced from sheep and camelids in Central — fabric. The Parthian theme continues on the design of the normally-Celtic sporran; something that I find much more useful than pockets. Of course, there are elements more Panem than Celtus or Parthia; my kilt pin's a Chimera, the embroidered symbols themselves are Central-based, and in place of a Celtic dirk is my old utility knife with the original handle and sheath swapped out for one of gold and ebony.

If I went full-Pacific, I could have also gone topless — a cape and sash at most — to show off the tattoos. Turns out the Pacific loves its tattoos as much as Three; even some stylistic similarity. But Ma and Pa wouldn't have approved of shirtlessness. So the trade-off's putting a collar on the vest and practically turning it into a sleeveless close-fitting jacket; funny thing is that the vest-and-no-shirt getup is common in Central's woods, so I'm simply embracing tradition.

Another garment conveniently referencing my heritage, while at the same time being pure Three, is the piece of cloth affixed with a broach to drape over my left shoulder. Like the Celtic fly plaid it has an uncanny resemblance to — a bit smaller and lighter than the plaid, but still — Three sashes serve as identifying markers while doubling as scarves if need be. My folks have Panem Dynamics' logo printed on theirs, while Brue and Joe have Central's seal. Mine has non-identifying designs on it, but the golden broach is of a Chimera holding the Panem Dynamics logo.

And yes, I checked with the ambassadors beforehand to make sure the outfit's fine; the purpose is to respect my heritage, not mock it. Even if certain idiots think I'm wearing a skirt.

When Luce does finally surface, I'm about to quip that it took him long enough when something catches me off guard.

It isn't the Blue Dress uniform itself. It isn't the absurd — albeit justified — number of ribbons creating a practical wall of color against the simple midnight-blue-with-red-trim of his coat, nor is it the presence of badges underneath that highlights his combat and medical skills. It isn't even that Medal of Honor glinting in the light as it dangles from his collar; its presence earns the bemused Corpsman collective-and-returned salutes from the uniformed Hawthorne, Rory, and Eli, as well as handshakes from my folks and Wilson. All of that I'm already familiar with. Instead, what has my attention is the matching pair of red and gold patches on his sleeves.

"When did this happen,  _Sergeant_?" I ask.

"Last month."

Luce's nonchalance sends a twinge of irritation through me. "And you didn't deem getting a rank up important enough to mention the last few times you were here?"

He's unruffled by my accusation and states, "Wanted to make it a surprise for the right moment."

 _Cheeky bastard…_  Granted, I don't really expect anything less from him and acknowledge that fact with a grunt. "Well, congrats." Seriously, he more than likely earned it as usual.

"Thanks," he chirps with a grin as he moves to ruffle my already-groomed hair. "Nice skirt by the way."

I manage to intercept Luce's hand and bat it away with a scowl. "It ain't a skirt. And I don't reckon you have much room to be making such comments." Without his cover concealing it, the Corpsman's hair looks even more ridiculous when contrasted with his uniform.

"Well whatever it is, it looks good on you." This time, there's actually more sincerity than amusement in his voice. "Fact."

"Thanks." This time I smirk back while noting, "You ain't too shabby yourself. … Huh, neither is he."

All things considered, I never expected anything fancy for Dio — it just wouldn't fit him — and I seem to be proven right when he finally shows up. The fitted indigo coat that he wears looks military-inspired, but the cut is different — instead of being belted or sashed like the actual uniforms, the front of the kid's coat terminates at the true waist while the back continues just halfway down his thighs — and somehow manages to look austere with a lack of visible buttons or other ornamentation. The pair of black close-fitting trousers and boots end up putting the finishing touches on the outfit and gives the kid the appearance of being some traditional guardsman who forgot all his regalia; however, instead of looking incomplete, it actually creates a solid martial theme that manages to not be undermined by its owner's apparent nervousness. As Dio gets closer, I notice pale and shimmery crystalline designs flowing from the breast of his coat and over the shoulders to his back to give an additional image of him caught in a snowstorm.

Before he does anything else, Dio goes straight over to Hazelle, who has what looks like a cord of braided material in her hands. As the kid kneels in front of his adoptive mother — seriously, he calls her "Mama" — she takes the braid and carefully wraps it around his head to create a secure fit. Despite how almost rustic that headband looks, it actually ends up complementing the suit and vice-versa; for some reason, it almost seems as if Espin actually took said headband into account even though there's been no sign of her subject wearing it prior.

I must be rusty at the moment because it's only when Hazelle adds a bead to the headband that my memory's jogged as to what that accessory is supposed to be, and after the ritual is complete, I approach Dio to chirp, "Nice lifebraid."

Judging by the wide-eyed look the kid gives me, I may have taken him by surprise. "You know what this is?"

Instead of explaining knowledge of their little life-showcase custom, I opt to answer his question with a shrug and a query of my own: "Have you forgotten that your Careers wore them for reapings and Victory Tours? Or that Guardians used to come solely from your district?"

The latter actually were the ones to tell me about this little Twofer custom. Granted, once they finished basic training and returned to Central as newly-minted Guardians, many of the boots tended to discontinue wearing the braids as a way of embracing their new home in a wholehearted manner. Though, except for the ones who were especially bitter about their birthplace, they usually didn't discard the accessory but rather would add one last bead to put a cap on that phase of their life.

As Dio doesn't ask for an elaboration, I take it that he finds my explanation satisfactory, and he immediately kneels back down when I ask to get a better look at the string of beads dangling from the braid by his left ear… which doesn't give much to choose from.

Of course, the one furthest up at the top is the birth bead, which is carved out of antler; probably due to the contrasting color, the last bead a Twofer gets upon their death is made out of onyx. For some reason, despite being marked to specification, birth beads don't display the specific birthdate; instead, horizontal lines denote which year of a cycle the person was born on, and said lines are colored to represent what the day of birth is. In Dio's case, six lines of indigo mark the white material; which means that he was born on a Saturday in the sixth year of that cycle.

Following the birth bead is one of smoky quartz, which represents the completion of his first cycle; it's at this point that they receive the braid and wear it for the first time. A quartz bead is added for each cycle they pass. There's probably supposed to be some meaning about the emphasis on days and cycles, but I don't care that much. I do know is that there's some irony in how superstitious Twofers are — I've heard how they talk about their statue — despite the good chunk of them formerly and wholeheartedly supporting a regime intent on eliminating superstitions.

"Which one's this?" I ask while pointing at the next couple ones: one's red agate and the other's marble with a little symbol etched into it. It's something I don't recognize and, if I had to guess, tends to come after the age-fifteen mark, which is when most Guardians join up.

"Surviving the war," the kid quickly explains for the red one before moving on: "And graduating from the Academy. Every school has their own symbol. If I finish my education here, I think they'll have to design a new one."

"And I reckon the last one is for when you turn eighteen?" I add while pointing to the bead of amethyst; the same one Hazelle added and the last one before the silver cap at the end. When Dio shows shock again, I answer with another shrug: "Lucky guess as I reckon nothing else happened between the time you came here and now."

"Well you're right," he concedes.

"Of course I am. Anyways, so they actually make new versions of beads?"

"Why wouldn't we?" the kid asks with small frown.

"Well, you're big on tradition and all that…"

"Still, doesn't mean that we can't adapt."  _Says the guy who still dresses more uptight than those in uniform._ But I don't vocalize that thought and instead simply give one last shrug.

Dio doesn't seem to find my answer satisfactory, and he asks Hazelle to show me her lifebraid. Though instead of being part of a headband, the braid's tightly wound to form a wreath-like broach with the beads coming down from the middle. Hazelle must anticipate a question bubbling up as she states, "I still feel too old and ingrained in my District Twelve ways to fully adopt the traditions of my new home the same way my children have done."

"Besides," Dio adds while pointing to his head, "you don't have to wear it like this. Most elders don't do so, and it's improper to wear it in uniform except for really special occasions such as graduation."  _Or charging a position._  I've seen more than enough footage of Twofers from both sides in the war to reach this conclusion.

Naturally, I still don't vocalize those thoughts but instead look at everyone else. While most of the others are in the process of setting their braids the usual way, it just now occurs to me that Hawthorne wears his as a lanyard on the uniform. Though… "What about Rory?" Despite his uniform, the middle Hawthorne is having his braid affixed on his head by Eli.

Rory must have heard me, because he immediately responds with a shrug of his own, "This uniform allows it."

I send a skeptical glance towards Dio, who states, "He's right. Even in my time it was allowed."

 _Of more likely, somebody's really likes embracing Twofer culture…_  Still, I just ask, "So what did you want to show me?"

The kid proceeds to point me towards the beads on Hazelle's braid. "What do you see?"

I take a closer look. "Well, of course there's birth, first cycle… and I see she's at least three cycles old, and… um, I can guess one of the red ones has to do with the Rebellion, but why's there also one early on?"

"It's for surviving the Great Flu of 171," Hazelle states. Ah, I heard about that nasty bit; took out almost five percent of the population nationwide, with some spots hit harder than others. 

"Uh, well, I reckon the gold one after age eighteen is marriage. Am I right?" I get an affirmative. "Then the four turquoise ones are the birth of your kids. Which means this bronze one right before your third cycle is… oh…"

As my analysis dies down, she simply comments, "You can say it. It's when I became a widow. Though while Posy was actually born after that… event, I was told her bead should be set before as she's still Zeph's."

"Ah…" Wanting to move past that awkwardness, I peer at one last bead. This one's made of lapis lazuli and has ten lines etched in it. "Uh…" Okay, I'm completely at a loss.

"It's my acceptance bead. It's to say that I'm accepted into District Two on the tenth year of this cycle," she explains. "We were actually the first people to get something like this, at least for a century…"

"Because until now, there wasn't anyone moving into Two," I finish with comprehension. Indeed, that lapis bead can be seen on Hawthorne, Rory, and…  _huh_ … "Though why doesn't Vick have one?"

"He came here before his first cycle completed, so there's no need," Dio says as if it's the most logical thing in the world. "Same for Posy once she gets hers."

"Okay…" A slightly convoluted system, but I'm not going to argue about it. Instead, with Dio providing commentary, I take a look at Hawthorne and Wilson's to compare and contrast… even if they bristle at my scrutiny. Both have yet to complete their second cycles and they hold marked beads of red agate signifying that they've not just been through tribulation but also actively participated — well, sort of in the case of Wilson — but the similarities ends there. Wilson has a couple beads representing not just his graduation but him participating in a major event during his time at the Academy; plus there's an aquamarine bead representing his Peacekeeper service. Hawthorne, in contrast, has a granite bead showing his service to the Rebellion and a green agate one showing his entry into the current Army; oh yeah, and his acceptance bead as well.

That's when I notice that Dio has skipped a bead. "What about this one?" I ask while pointing between the combat and acceptance ones; there, one made out of lead and containing three marks on it stands out like a sore thumb. Compared to the rest of them, it's as if the crafters only put the minimal amount of finish on it.

From how mortified the kid looks at my query, it becomes clear that I wasn't supposed to notice. However, before things can get anymore awkward, Hawthorne cuts in to gently murmur, "It's alright, D. I'll tell him." The former rebel then turns to me with a more matter-of-fact voice: "Shame. It represents shame. I don't need to explain what for."

 _Oh…_ It's fortunate that Hawthorne's the last person I was looking at anyways, because it looks like Dio's no longer in any emotional state to be my guide.

Since this is supposed to be a festive occasion, I decide to change the subject. Said change is abrupt enough to cause whiplash, but is still does its job; just as I hoped, the kid gets barraged with complements as to his appearance and, in a different state of awkward, seems to forget the subject less than a minute prior.

"Anyways," I add while pointing to the coat, "is this some winter— _No, Luce_."

The Corpsman, who's about to poke the kid's coat, pulls his hand back with a pout. Though it's then that I notice what caught his attention: the fractal-like designs on Dio's coat don't just sit there but actually form, flow, and dissipate in dynamic flux, especially in response to movement. Even I'll admit that it's slightly mesmerizing, and I have a suspicion that Luce won't exercise restraint for long.

Dio scratches the back of his head and jolts my attention back to him by murmuring, "Actually yeah. Ms. Espin and Mr. Tracy wanted to do some sort of seasonal theme. Though I'm not exactly sure what they mean about having… uh… about having…"

As the kid's speech sputters to a halt, I follow his wide-eyed line of sight to the source of his verbal troubles.

If the theme's opposites, then Lucy has the perfect summer foil for Dio's winter. Granted, the dress is actually quite simple, with the only major designs being delicate gold highlights placed along the scarlet fabric. Not to mention that it's clearly made to highlight her body and tattoos — be it the slit along the side of the flowing floor-length skirt, or the way the garment hangs off a torc to allow full exposure for her shoulders and back — while still maintaining the type of decorum needed for a formal event. Granted, the lack of frills for her dress is compensated by jewelry — mostly constructed out of gold and festooned with fire opals or insect-filled amber; that superstitious pendant worn by her and her brother is also included — and other accessories; somehow she manages to fit a sash in as well. Even I'll admit that everything complements each other without cluttering the ensemble; the serpents coiling up from her heeled sandals are an especially nice touch. I also don't miss the usual dose of Central pragmatism in the form of an ornate utility belt and a tool-cuff integrated into a bracelet.

If Lucy wanted to make an impact, her plan appears to be working considering how Eli, Rory, and Vick are fidgeting at her presence… or how Dio's still in his wide-eyed prey-frozen-by-a-spotlight mode. Luce simply throws an arm around his sister to be the first to offer a complement, with others following some after.

After we mingle a bit — not just to give props to the former stylists but also to allow some of the guys time to acclimate — Luce takes me to the side.

"By the way Ned, I have another surprise for you…" As he trails off, the Corpsman turns to his sister to ask, "Sis, do you have the camera ready?"

Lucy rolls her eyes but still unclasps the device from her belt. I'm about to ask what's going on when…  _Uh…_

"Even if you ain't engaged to someone else right now, you do know I don't swing that way, right?" That quip is the only response I can give to the Corpsman kneeling in front of me.

This time, he doesn't say anything to that but instead just gives a small smirk before reaching into his pocket to pull out a flat leather case. As he holds it out to me, I can… I can see the Guardian seal embroidered on its surface.

"Luce… what are you doing?"  _Dammit, and why is my throat failing me right now?_

The bastard merely allows his smirk to grow a bit into a full smile as he lifts up the case's lid, and words fail me.

_This must be a mistake… This has to be a mistake… Or at least an elaborate practical joke._

Still, no matter how long I stare, the existence of the item before my eyes becomes harder to deny.

There's enough ambient light to reflect softly against the anodized surface of a bronze triangle; well, sort of an isosceles triangle except for the two sides leading down to the vertex being convex. Laurels flare up at the top and along the sides, and amongst that top crown of leaves is a ring that attaches to a forest-green ribbon with a center stripe of white; green representing the Guardian Corps and white representing selflessness. As a finishing touch, and in the middle of that triangle, is an abstract design that's a simplified overhead view of Central itself; even without turning the medal over, I know that there will be a Chimera on the other side.

I know all of this because anybody who spends just a short amount of time in Central should know what a Guardian Shield is, and anybody should know that it's the decoration of valor only second in prestige to the Medal of Honor itself.

So why the hell does Luce Stone look like he's giving one to me?

The white stripe on the ribbon is what highlights just how completely ridiculous this is. I mean, does the word "selfless" come anywhere close to describing me? That's not even getting into the obvious fact that this decoration is awarded to those exhibiting extraordinary heroism in combat. Heroism! Plus…

"I ain't even a Guardian."

"The Guardian Shield is awarded to those who show outstanding courage and skill in the service of Central," Luce states to me that tone of voice that he only reserves for when he's in professional mode; now  _that_  freaks me out because he never kids when using that voice. Thankfully, his tone softens when he tells me, "You're a part of Central just as much as anyone else there. Fact."

"Since you know what this decoration is," adds Brue, "you should know that Guardians aren't the only ones who've been awarded it."

I don't even have to look up at the operative to know that he has a point. Many non-Guardians, from engineers to even folks from the woods, have been given this decoration… sometimes posthumously.

"But that doesn't explain why  _I'm_  getting one."

Luce raises his eyebrows at me. "Besides the fact that you saved my life?"

 _Wait… what._  "I saved… I… what." _What is he talking about?_ "W-what are you talking about?"

"You don't remember?" the Corpsman asks. "You really don't remember what happened in the last November you were with us?"

 _That?_  "I do but…"

But I still don't see how I fit into that day…

That day when the Capitol fell.

That day when we were attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lifebraid is based on a mixture of braided headbands from antiquity. All materials that the beads are made out from can be found in the Rockies. Oh, and in Panem, the first day of the week is Monday, not Sunday.
> 
> If it's not clear, the Guardian Shield's based off the Navy Cross, and it's the second highest decoration a Guardian can earn and highest Central-specific one.  
> Central resurrected most pre-Cataclysm decorations, with only a few modifications for relevancy; EG the Purple Heart has the profile and coat of arms of Romulus Snow instead of George Washington. Post-Rebellion, most of the non-branch-specific awards expanded to the rest of Panem's military.  
> This includes the Medal of Honor. Here, the shape is a trefoil with the plan of Central in the center and a Chimera linking the medal to the ribbon. The one adopted post-Rebellion by Panem's Army, and later Navy and Air Force, reverted back to the star.


	17. The Hangar

***November 25, 200***

“Reckon I’d find you here.”

My statement prompts Luce to take a cursory look back over his shoulder before he shrugs and returns to sulking.

“I ain’t sulking.”

Lance Corporal Lucius Stone’s statement pulls me up short, and I take a quick mental check to make sure I’m not voicing my thoughts out loud. Satisfied that’s not what’s happening — at least… I don’t think it was — I stroll forward to mimic the Corpsman by plopping down next to him and allowing my legs to dangle off the ledge. “Maybe, but if that’s the first thing you say, can you blame us for having that impression?”

He just grunts in response, which in a way is pleasant as it allows me to enjoy the scenery and tranquility. The nice thing about this little alcove is that it’s both out of the way from the hustle-and-bustle of the rest of the hangar for a good amount of quiet and far enough from the train tracks so as to allow me to look straight down — at least a hundred feet down — to the forest below. Most of the leaves have fallen by now, but there’s still enough color left to combine with the cool breeze and late afternoon sun in creating a nice comfortable setting.

At the same time, nobody likes to see Luce like this… which he’s been ever since seeing Mellark go nuts — well… go nuts again; general consensus here is that Bread Boy was hijacked — and especially after hearing about what happened to Odair.

“At the very least, we expected you to be celebrating with the others about the news,” I mutter while rummaging through my pack. “Ah, here we are!”

With that proclamation, I bring out the thermos and a couple cups to serve up some persimmon tea; already the sharp notes of ginger and cinnamon, mingling with the sweet aroma of the fruit and honey, waft up so that I can take them in. Of course, even though the Corpsman mutters his thanks upon receiving his cup, I don’t miss the small frown of disappointment that forms after he takes a whiff of the red translucent liquid.

“No, there ain’t anything extra in it, and don’t ask,” I growl. “Even if I felt like indulging you — which I don’t — the Commandant, your sister, and Joe would probably turn me into a test subject if they found out.”

I love booze as much as the next guy, but even I know when it stops being fun. Hopefully this will all blow over so that we can get our friendly idiot of a drinking partner back again.

Luce looks about ready to lob back some tired retort but ultimately settles for a resigned sigh before taking a sip. A few seconds later, he downs the whole drink and doesn’t even have to say anything as I refill the cup extended out towards me.

“Someone’s thirstier than he took himself for,” I note with a grin and barely-suppressed chuckle. “I know the drink’s supposed to be served cold but reckoned it’d be a bit more useful on the warm side.”

And right at that moment, I swear that I can see a shadow of a smile grace the Corpsman’s face. If so, it’d be the first I’ve seen from him in days. “Seriously, thanks, Ned. You really didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I didn’t,” I shoot back. “But I’ve nothing better to do, so why not join you to toast to this new era and shit?”

“Thought you didn’t care for the Rebellion.”

“I don’t.” I doubt that I ever will, and I seriously wonder why people — including some here; case in point right next to me — are so obsessed with that clearly-unhinged girl from Twelve. However, I don’t necessarily have anything against it either, and since my folks have been leading the fight out there in the cities of Three, I guess that’d make me pro-Rebellion by default; not too keen on imagining how things would’ve been if they lost.

“But hey, might as well roll with the times to try something new. Especially since the alternative is being like  _them_ ,” I note with a nod of the head towards the nearby group of morose Peacekeepers clustered around their hovercrafts or milling around close-by; there has to be a least several companies’-worth of them taking refuge here, which raises all sorts of questions as to what we’re going to do with them. On the bright side, unlike when we’ve usually had to host those white-clad lackeys, we’re allowed to say anything we want without worries of repercussion.

For some reason, my explanation causes Luce to draw back into himself again, and after taking another refill, he looks down at his cup in silence for what seems like quite a while before muttering, “I’m glad that evil regime and the man behind it was brought down; it’s the least they all deserve. But… I don’t think that means we should start celebrating right now, especially since…”

He doesn’t have to finish that sentence, and to my own surprise I find myself grimacing. “Yeah… I know.”

“You hear anything?” Luce also doesn’t have to elaborate about, and I look to see him staring at me with eyes holding an equal dose of hope and fear. Which I don’t get as he hasn’t even met those Twelvers, much less know them personally; why he feels the need to be emotionally invested eludes me completely, and it frankly comes off as unhealthy.

Still, I answer to the best of my ability: “Well, Beetee called the Tower a couple hours ago; by the way, he wondered where you were.” A small expression of guilt briefly flashes over the Corpsman’s features at that bit of news, but all he does is motion for me to continue. “Anyways, Mellark and Everdeen are still being stabilized at this moment. It’s too early to tell right now, but they may pull through.” Even I feel confident about that; the Capitol’s damn idiotic about many things, but they know how to run their medical facilities.

However confident Luce feels about their chances, he doesn’t let me know but instead closes his eyes and murmurs something — it’s too quiet to easily tell but it’s probably one of those rehearsed passages he’s so fond of — that I suspect isn’t directed toward me. What he  _does_  direct toward me is this: “They’ll make it… They  _have_  to make it.” I don’t say anything to that. “Anything else?”

“Besides the lucky ones who died on the spot?” Okay, that came out harsher than intended, and I’m already wincing at my words even before the Corpsman begins to take on a wounded expression.

In general, let’s just say that those bombs didn’t exactly leave a positive impression on Luce, despite him not knowing a single person who was there. Not that I blame him; yes, even I think certain things cross the line. I don’t know which affected the Corpsman worse: all those kids… or the medics who were taken out with them. Not to mention that Primrose girl, whom many here liked; even more than they admire her older sister.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I hastily add. I really didn’t mean it like that.

Luce just holds up his hand in response. “I know… I know you didn't…” he mutters before waving forward. “Go on.”

With that out of the way, I fill the Corpsman in on the details that Beetee relayed to us regarding the final battle and surrender. What I don’t mention is how the old victor seemed to be rattled about something a bit more than just the usual nastiness that comes with war; whatever it was, he didn’t elaborate, and we didn’t press.

In any case, what I am sure about is that the decision of the Commandant to keep out of this fight was a smart one, regardless of the views of certain individuals.

Still, when I see the look on Luce’s face after I get done relaying all that info, I huff in exasperation. “Oh, get real. This was war. Good folks die.” I don’t add that he of all people should know that; again, I’m not that heartless.

“I know…” he repeats with a sigh. “It’s just, why does it always take and destroy everything good?”

“You’re still here.”

My statement actually takes the idiot aback, but he merely opts to mutter, “I just wish I could have helped out in some way.”

_Just so you can get blown up in a conflict’s that’s not our problem? Yeah, no._

I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that out loud either, but something must have given my thoughts away because Luce’s eyes bore into me before he shakes his head in disappointment. “Once you sit with kids to try and comfort them before they get sent to their deaths… have your own family taken away to that same spectacle… have a sword put to your neck just for believing in something more than the Capitol,” he states, “it becomes your problem.”

“Well, the rebs took care of that,” I counter in a casual effort to diffuse the situation, “so I’d say the point’s moot.”

I doubt that Luce considers my response as satisfactory — it’s not like our disagreements are new or anything — but he appears to let things slide as he focuses back on the tea.

As we begin to wrap up, something causes him to frown a bit, and I follow his line of sight to figure out as to what the source of his confusion is. What I see is a large contingent of the Peacekeepers standing in formation. Though it curiously doesn’t look like that’s all of them, even when factoring those scattered around the place.

“And here comes the ray of sunshine,” I mutter as we watch Head Peacekeeper Irons walking around to inspect the formation.

I’ve forgotten which year Feldspar Irons became a victor in, but it was when I was a baby. Supposedly, what he’s known for wasn’t just his swordsmanship, but actually coordinating the Career Pack as an organized group that suffered no losses till they turned on each other at the end. It — plus a high dose of loyalty and zeal exhibited even after his victory — is probably how he was able to become a Peacekeeper, ultimately leading him into getting a Head Peacekeeper position at a younger age than even the Commandant.

He’s also quite a peach. Besides the usual level of contempt exhibited towards us during the Peacekeepers’ stay, their leader also disciplined some of his soldiers for mourning what that Hawthorne guy did; his rationale was that it was Two’s fault for allowing the rebels to get that close in the first place… which I think is a bit rich coming from a guy who’s spent the last couple months holed up here. Not to mention how he’s never seen without armor even when going into town; standard Head Peacekeeper armor somehow manages to be even more ridiculous than the usual gear by having a chrome finish while worn over their suit-like uniforms, which probably explains how they’ve been picked off so easily. Of course, despite Irons’ charming disposition and being from a different force, his rank means that most Guardians still have to salute him.

At the moment, he’s making some speech, which makes us stop to watch — it’s not just me and Luce; the speech gives the ground crew and Guardians on guard duty pause as well — with some level of amusement due to it being the usual drivel: blahblahblah… this isn’t true defeat… blahblahblah… the rebels are vile and they should feel vile… blahblahblah… we will rise up and prevail with honor… and so on.

“Yeah,” I mutter as we continue on past another pair of Peacekeepers not part of the formation but still eating up Irons’ bloviating, “they will totally prevail the same way they prevailed in Two. Oh wait…”

Luce gives me that look of his when he wants me to be more respectful, but doesn’t say anything else. Probably because he knows I’m right.

Though before I can say anything about that, the Corpsman stops in his tracks, and I can see his frown deepen and eyes narrow in the sort of way that makes  _me_  freeze while all sorts of internal alarm bells are set off.

That’s when one of the Peacekeepers breaks from the formation and begins sprinting towards the nearest group of Guardians. However, instead of showing aggression, he looks positively scared as he waves his hands over his head and screams, “It’s an attack! He’s going to—”

“YOU LITTLE TRAITOR!”

I don’t hear the rest of Irons’ bellowed statement as Luce’s tackles me. The moment I hit the ground — with the partial weight of the Corpsman’s body on top — a sharp report of gunfire echoes in the space of the hangar.

As the echoes fade, I look up to see a scene frozen in time as everybody tries to figure out the situation: the Peacekeeper sprawled on the ground and leaking blood from his back and what used to be his head, Irons holding a hand cannon and expression of severe distaste, the remaining Peacekeepers suddenly having a tight grip on their weapons, the Guardians doing the same…

I don’t know what sends time progressing forward again, but when it does… everything goes to shit.

The Guardians present react quickly and are able to get more than a few shots in, which is demonstrated by Peacekeepers toppling back with crimson marring their white uniforms and the occasional scream. However, skill can only do so much in the face of numbers, and only a few seconds pass before they are cut down — along with a few workers, including some who haven’t even drawn their sidearms — by the white-clad assholes’ gunfire.

_What are they doing? Why are they doing this?_

Granted, it’s not like I’m able to dwell on that because Luce rolls himself off me only to quickly shove  _me_  underneath an adjacent work bench; there’s just barely enough room for me to squeeze into that space.

I ignore the sudden cranial ache — courtesy of not being warned to duck my head beforehand — to hiss, “Luce, what are you—”

“Stay. There.”

I want to argue. I want to fight instead of being completely useless in hiding. But something in Luce’s voice almost compels me to obey. At least, I’m sure that’s it; I really hope that I haven’t frozen up because of a bunch of enemy gunfire… enemy gunfire that’s happening inside our home.

Except there’s no longer gunfire; just barked commands from Peacekeeper officers, the groans and wails of the injured and dying… and a declaration from Irons via speaker that they’ll start killing off wounded and potential prisoners if any Guardian unit approaches.

“You! Down on the ground!”

Despite the Peacekeeper’s — one of the group that we just passed — barked command, Luce doesn’t immediately comply but instead faces them to state in an even but hardened tone, “There are wounded out there, I need—”

“I said down on the ground, hillbilly!” As if to punctuate his statement, the asshole forces Luce — for reasons that evade me, he doesn’t resist — to his knees. It’s in this moment where, as the Corpsman’s face comes into view, my blood turns to ice.

I’ve seen Luce upset before. I’ve seen him become quite steely in his admonishments. I’ve even seen him get pissy a couple times. Yet I’ve always assumed that’s been the extent of his anger, and I’ve even poked fun at him for being a damn lotus leaf.

What I see before me shows just how wrong my assumptions have been. I’m not sure I ever want to see it again.

At first glance the Corpsman actually seems quite calm, even with his hands clasped behind his head and a gun trained on him. However, the way his deep and even breaths come out in a low hiss through clenched teeth is the first giveaway… followed by how visibly tense all his muscles are. And then there are the eyes… wide eyes looking at nothing in particular with the pupils narrowed to pinpricks as his irises take on a lighter shade of hazel than they usually are; honestly, they don’t even look human.

Of course the assholes, being assholes, ignore this, and one of them asks, “Where’s the other guy? The short one?"  _You fucking fuck._

Though if they expect Luce to cooperate that easily, they’re proven wrong when he grits out, "We offered our hospitality… we gave you all sanctuary…”

One of the assholes seems about ready to respond to that, but another cuts him off to state, “We don’t have time to argue with the hillbilly, and there’s still that other one nearby…” They probably already suspect where I am — it’s not like it isn’t the first spot to look — but any concern about getting caught gets supplanted by the asshole’s next statement: “Though I will say that’s a nice hat you got there.”

_Oh shit…_

Next thing I know, Luce’s cover is yanked off his head, and over the sounds of laughter — likely over the Corpsman's hair — I can hear the asshole say, “It’ll look better on me.”

_OH SHIT!_

Seriously, unless he gives you permission, don’t even touch that cover.

When Luce responds, his voice suddenly becomes so calm and quiet I almost don’t hear him: “Gonna kill you…”

The Peacekeepers stop laughing. “What did you just say?”

“Gonna  _fucking_  kill you all…”

I don’t have any chance to dwell on the ramifications of that announcement. Because all thoughts get banished away as a hand clamps down on my ankle.

“Got you, you little sneak.”

_No! Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! HELP!_

I’m pretty sure some of my thoughts are vocalized as I scramble and claw for purchase. I know I look like a coward right now, especially with Luce just being so calm, but I really don’t want to go out like this. I don’t.

… I won’t.

So I let the asshole drag me out. Because, first off, I may not have my knife on me, but said asshole hasn’t taken into consideration the little fact that people drop and lose tools all the time. This work station is no different, which allows me to grab hold of what I need. Secondly, something else not taken into consideration is how you have to lower yourself to grab something at ground level… and, thirdly, short people don’t have to bend as far to reach their feet.

I barely allow the light to hit my eyes before twisting around to curl forward and slam the spanner into the Peacekeeper’s jaw.

I’m not delusional enough to think that I could do a lot of damage with this maneuver. But as I hear a few things crack and tear from here, I’m sure that I’ve done enough, and the Peacekeeper lets go as she reels back to cradle that jaw. The same happens when I chuck the spanner into the face of the second-nearest target. Granted, there’s the whole issue of what to do next… which is completely out of my hands.

It’s not my intention — honestly, I’m just lashing out — but my “enough” is also enough for Luce. Because the little stunt immediately causes the other Peacekeeper to forget about the Corpsman and turn on me.

Big mistake.

In an instant, Luce goes from kneeling to lunging up to grab the asshole’s gun and aim it in a way that the reflexive burst of fire goes into said asshole’s stunned comrades. The Peacekeeper is barely able to reflect upon the events before the Corpsman forces the muzzle of the rifle under the chin of its owner and holds down on the trigger.

If I’m being honest, that last part’s actually a bit disconcerting. I mean, I know that Luce is capable despite my constant ragging on him for being soft… but  _damn…_

Unfortunately, it also gains the attention of the other Peacekeepers.

 _Fortunately_ , turns out there are other pockets of survivors, and none of them have actually surrendered or been secured by the Peacekeepers yet. This little fact is demonstrated by them opening fire on the now-distracted group.

Now, the smart thing we should do now is take advantage of the firefight and find some cover, preferably with the rest o— _oh for fuck’s sake!_

 _Of course_  Luce doesn’t go for the smart option. Instead, he sprints out into the  _damn open_. However, as I pluck his cover off the ground, I don’t have to guess why the Corpsman’s doing that _…_  even if he’s liable to get himself killed; because straight ahead of him are several of our own injured. There’s also several Peacekeepers headed in that direction as well.

_Dammit, please don’t get killed…_

Granted, it’s not like I have to tell Luce that. Even as the Peacekeepers begin training their weapons on him, the Corpsman already has his pistol out and begins firing without a break in his stride. Now Guardian training emphasizes center-of-mass shots, but Luce doesn’t bother checking whether or not Peacekeeper breastplates have enough stopping power to render a .45 nonlethal. Instead he focuses on clear weak points and, in the process, displays his marksmanship in all its glory despite lacking a rifle. Even after all the stories I’ve heard about him in the field, nothing prepares me for actually seeing things in person.

In a span of just a couple seconds, a succession of reports accompany shattering visors and splatters of crimson as three of the Peacekeepers go down; though one of them doesn’t look to be de—oh… nevermind. By the time Luce is just within ten meters, there’s only one Peacekeeper left in front of him. I guess said Peacekeeper thinks the Corpsman’s too close or something, because he immediately drops his rifle and goes for the gladius. Luce doesn’t bother wasting ammo either but instead drops down to convert his momentum into an enemy-tripping side-tackle; the Peacekeeper doesn’t even have the chance to raise his sword before a round goes into his face.

Almost as if to specifically back Luce up, a familiar sound — akin to the ripping of cloth — fills the air and signifies that one of our guys has brought out a Bonesaw; I’ve always hated that cacophony, but for now, it’s a welcome melody accompanying the slew of 8mm rounds rushing towards the main group of Peacekeepers. So there’s comparatively little worry about retaliation from that side.

Still, the Corpsman doesn’t take any chances and, after taking a quick look at the wounded, picks a crewman up in a usually-dangerous carry and grabs a Guardian by the collar of the vest before sprinting — I’m not being figurative; he’s actually sprinting at full speed — back to me.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Yes, that screamed statement is the only one I can give in response to what I just saw.

In turn the only response Luce gives me, as he lays his patients out, is a rapid, “Have to keep wounded safe.”

“But look at you! You’re bleeding! Wait…” I pause to look him over again before pointing towards his arm. “Yeah, that’s definitely your blood at least right there!”

“Doesn’t matter.” Suddenly the Corpsman slings his pack off and slides it towards me. “Keep this safe. This too,” he adds while taking the cover out of my hands and placing it on my head.

“Wait, but—” Too late; right after making that strange little gesture of his — said gesture consists of a rapid tapping of his forehead, chest, and both shoulders; always in that order… and almost always preceding him doing something exceedingly stupid — he’s reloaded his gun and already running back into the fray. “DAMMIT!”

_Yep, it’s official: he’s an idiot. He’s a fucking idiot who—_

A hand pawing at my arm keeps me from following the idiot’s progress, and I look down to see the wounded Guardian — I think this private’s actually younger than me by at least a few months — trying to… gurgle something.

“I…” I’m about to mention that I can’t understand what he’s trying to say — a bit hard to do when most of his face has been obliterated — but think better of it. Instead, I try my best to mimic what the Corpsmen do. So I clasp the dying — no way around that fact — kid’s hand. “I’m here. I'll… figure something out,” I mutter while rummaging through Luce’s pack. Finally, I just grab one of those pre-set morphling pens and inject the kid with it; it does its work in relaxing him before he finally passes.

To my relief, the crewman has a graze on the arm and a non-vital hit on the leg; she’s more pissed off than anything else. So I toss her some antiseptic and bandages to stem the bleeding, as well as the instructions to do it herself; my statement comes off a bit brusque than intended, but I think she understands that I’d probably do more harm than good trying to patch her up.

“What’s the situation here?”

The barked query combined with the hand clamping down on my shoulder totally doesn’t cause me to jump a couple inches and let off a squeak resembling that of an attacked rodent. Fortunately, my not-shock gets replaced by no small amount of relief when I see that the person talking to me is a gunnery sergeant with a small contingent of Guardians around her; granted, the relief is tempered by the fact that it’s not a new group but simply one that moved here from another sheltered spot. Still, I allow a couple of the guys to take over for wounded duties.

In any case, I answer Gunny with a muttered, “Ask him,” while jabbing a thumb at Luce, who’s bringing over a couple crewmen. Though the Corpsman only takes the time to answer a few questions in a monosyllabic manner before running back out again.

“You just let him go?” I hiss.

“Boy,” Gunny counters, “right now, we’re just trying to get through this, and the best thing we can do is keep these fuckers contained while Doc recovers our own.” To follow up on that, she takes out a frag grenade, sets the timer to be as minimal as possible, and then arcs it towards the Peacekeepers — of course, in a different direction from where Luce is — before motioning us to duck down.

I’m pretty sure I’ll need to get my ears checked afterwards. That is, if we manage to survive.

So as everyone casts suppressing fire and pushes objects around to create a mini fortress, Luce just keeps ferrying back and forth to find, recover — sometimes enlisting the help of those less hurt to help carry people back — and deposit more wounded; sometimes, he doesn’t take them to our group but towards other surviving clusters. Each trip may or may not rack up a Peacekeeper body count in the process, but I’m not sure the Corpsman will be able to keep it up at the rate he’s going through his ammo; he’s not exactly one of the more heavily-armed of the Guardians around here. Not to mention that that having to prioritize which wounded he recovers has to be taking a toll; never mind that the ones he leaves behind are goners judging by the many times he’s bringing back guys who are clearly on their way out. And, by now, his little excursions have not gone unnoticed by the main group of Peacekeepers.

Despite our small scattered group chipping away at the Peacekeepers’ forces, the fact remains that they still outnumber us by at least thirty-to-one. That they’ve brought their scuta out isn’t making things any easier; those damn shields are resistant enough to conventional rifle fire that we have to rely on the Bonesaw and well-timed grenade attacks to create openings. And as long as there’s still a risk of hostages being taken out in retaliation or us being caught in the crossfire, Command isn’t likely to act; it’s not like these white-clad lackeys are an actual threat to the community itself, and if they’re dumb enough to make a move towards the town, they’ll have to go through the defenses at the inner wall first. Granted, despite rational logic, the situation around us tells me that we need some fucking help.

All the while, despite occasionally having the fun job of ferrying ammo between groups, I feel completely useless.

_Unless…_

“Hey, everyone here have their implants?”

My question earns raised eyebrows from one of the Guardians. “Of course. Why?”

After I explain my idea, I’m not sure to either be relieved or worried that Gunny only appears to have a cursory amount of skepticism.

“Are you really sure you want to go out there?” is the only thing that she asks.

 _Are you kidding me?_  I want to crawl back home and stay under the covers. I’d prefer to be anywhere other than out there. “At this point, what I want is kinda irrelevant,” I mutter. “Well, except for this to be over as soon as possible.”

“Though I’m not sure Command will be willing to budge on this.”

“I’m already here, and there won’t be an outside controller. Even if Luce missed someone, and I reckon he’s almost got everybody, I guarantee this will happen too fast and be too distracting for them to retaliate towards our wounded. I mean, at this point, what do we have to lose by trying it out?”

Even though only a few seconds pass, it feels like hours as Gunny mulls over the plan. In the end though, she ultimately takes her communicator and calls in permission to initiate the Chum Protocol.

So more waiting. I hate this waiting, but it’s the only thing that I can do as Gunny enters in the authorization codes. On the upside, Luce only has one last person to bring over to safety. Once he gets here, then—

…  _Did they… did those fucks just do what I think they did?_

Judging by the profanity-laden screams coming from the guys next to me, I’m not the only person who just saw what happened… who just saw bullets rip into the injured crewman whom Luce was approaching. There’s no way it could have been accidental crossfire either as there’s no other Guardians in the proximity, and the Corpsman is only fired upon after he regained enough sense to dive behind a shelter,

Worse, the shelter Luce hunkers behind is closer to the Peacekeepers than to us, and already there’s an attempt by them to advance upon that position no matter the suppressing fire we throw in their direction or how many we drop.

In the end though, and even through my outrage at the dick move just committed, a cold feeling of dread starts to get a hold of me when I see Luce… when I see his realization of the action that led to loss of his patient morph into something… else.

_Sonuvabitch…_

Luce checks his pistol and, upon finding it empty and himself without ammo, casts it to the ground… only to draw his knife.

_Don’t do it._

He begins checking the shadows cast by the approaching Peacekeepers while shifting into a crouch. Next to me, Gunny lets off a string of curses and orders everyone to prepare and shift their direction of fire.

_Don’t you fucking do it! Stay where you are!_

However, no matter what I will in his direction, there’s no sign that Luce acknowledges it. Instead, he brings his hand to the opposite wrist.

_Please… don't…_

Luce does.

The moment the Corpsman initiates things, a shudder moves through his body. I don’t know how much of it involves the augmentations going into overdrive… or the hormones flooding his system… or both… but all that matters is what he plans on doing with it.

And by this point, several Peacekeepers are almost right on top of him.

And that’s when the signal begins: a whistling high-pitched shriek playing like a piccolo tune melded with the screeching of cicadas, all the while lights flicker in a pulsing cadence. While those here in Central are familiar enough with that tune — to the point that some of those around me have looks on their faces amounting to a collective “oh shit” — it catches all Peacekeepers off guard and gives them pause.

Which, in turn, gives Luce the opening he needs for something I’m still hoping he doesn’t go through with.

Of course, the Corpsman’s the kind of guy who likes to defy my wishes… and defy them is what he does.

The signal isn’t even halfway through its first iteration when Luce shoots up to vault over the barrier and tackle the Peacekeeper closest to him. Even with the scutum held out, the Peacekeeper still manages to go down, and the Corpsman doesn’t waste time airing out the lackey’s throat before he stabs the knife into another Peacekeeper’s leg and drags it along the inner thigh all the way up into the groin; before the sliced-open Peacekeeper even manages to let out a scream, one of two still-standing comrades gets her feet kicked out from under her, followed by the kick to the face.

I’ll admit that just trying to follow Luce’s actions is a chore in itself, and a part of me that isn’t freaking out over his recklessness marvels at how fluid his movements are, even though at least some of that blood coating him has to be his own… and even though he wears an uncharacteristic snarl that’s almost maniacal.

The remaining Peacekeeper manages to train his gun on Luce, but before he’s able to get a shot in, the Corpsman bolts forward, snakes his arm around his enemy’s, and maneuvers it in a way that makes an audible snap. However, instead of finishing off the now-howling Peacekeeper while he’s held in place, Luce grabs something from his belt and affixes it to the enemy’s visor before said enemy is shoved to stumble back into his main group.

As Luce grabs one of the dropped scuta, slams the sharpened bottom edge into the neck of the kicked Peacekeeper before she can reach for her dropped gun, and hunkers behind it, it just occurs to me what might have been attached to the poor schmuck’s face. Gunny realizes as well since she calls for everyone to hunker dow— _muh…_

Even though I plug my ears and squeeze my eyes shut, the ensuing boom brings on a damn onset of tinnitus, and it’s if the sun materializes in the hanger for a moment. I'm… uh… I’m pretty sure it’s one of Joe’s designs.

Still, despite being even closer and lacking either glasses or ear protection, Luce doesn’t hesitate in getting back up with a scavenged Peacekeeper pistol in one hand and the scutum in the other to… to…  _Dammit._

I mean, it’s not like it’s unexpected by now, but I still can’t believe he’s charging right into the main mass of Peacekeepers. Granted, now that there’s a big opening left in the defe—

“Bannon!”

Gunny’s barked yet muted call ends up wrenching me away from the spectacle, and I respond to her with as much decorum as I can currently muster:

“Wha-huh?”

“Signal’s been sent out.” I must be thinking out loud again, because she immediately sighs to add, “Sitting on your ass to watch Doc won’t help him any. And this is your idea. So now it’s time for you to play your part.”

_Oh… wonderful._

But I don’t object. Instead, I grab an intact pair of glasses from an injured Guardian — hey, it’s not like he’s using them, and I ask for permission — and bolt back toward the entrance to the outside. Still, even though I make sure to keep myself in the shadows and behind obstructions to keep myself hidden on my way there, there’s only one thing that goes through my mind:

_I’m such an idiot…_

Though I’m sure I’m not a bigger idiot than the one currently tearing through a crowd of Peacekeepers.

Ironically, being surrounded actually works in  _his_  favor. The simple fact is that, due to close quarters and likely concern of friendly fire, the Peacekeepers rely on melee attacks instead of firearms; however Luce has no such limitations. Honestly, it’s quite something to see him tear through enemies and cycle through available weapons; usually his knife and whatever gun he has, but the shield, grenades, and his bare hands are used as well. It also probably helps that most of the Peacekeepers are still disoriented from the flashbang; I’m not sure I want to see the face of the guy it’s stuck to. Still, even with that and our forces taking advantage of broken defenses, I know this can’t last much longer. There only needs to be a couple slip-ups and Luce will be done for; that’s not even getting into what will happen once he goes back to normal.

And where the hell is my backup?

Because as I hunker down atop a hovercraft next to the ledge, I see nothing happening outside. Back at the group of Peacekeepers— _… the hell?_

For some reason they’re backing away to create a wide circle around two figures: Luce at one end and Irons at the other. Despite the fact that the Head Peacekeeper’s actually monologing — I guess nobody learned anything from watching that crazy Twofer bitch in the Seventy-fourth — I’ll give him some credit in this regard: he’s smart enough to position himself where nobody can get a clear shot, even with all that damn shiny armor he’s wearing. Well, nobody but Luce, who doesn’t even bother waiting for the monologue’s conclusion to aim the gun in hand… and find out that it’s empty.

Irons doesn’t appreciate the gesture. Actually he begins raving loud enough for me to catch snippets about “dishonorable cowards” before being interrupted again by Luce flinging his knife at him.

In all honesty, chucking your knife away like that is a stupid move, but it’s still to my dismay that the Head Peacekeeper intercepts the projectile and bats it aside with the sort of casual nonchalance that merely hints at his sword skill. Rumor has it that he actually uses the same blade of the spatha from his Games, with it fitted into a Capitol seal-bearing basket hilt to standardize it into a Head Peacekeeper schiavona; judging by the Capitol’s propos, the tributes he killed are but a fraction of the people to wet that blade. The nonchalance also belies the fact that he’s even more pissed off than before. And now he advances on Luce, who…

 _Oh shit, he’s not about to do what I think he’s about to do, is he?_  

By now Luce’s uniform is completely darkened, and I don’t miss the slight tremble or heaving breaths suggesting his body reaching a limit even with the augmentations. Despite that, there’s a determined glare and set of the jaw that also suggests him ready to take stupid to a level I never thought possible.

_Pick up a gun, throw a grenade, anything! You’re not seriously thinking about fighting one of the best swordsmen in Panem, are you?_

As if in answer, the Corpsman kicks a dropped gladius up into his hand and takes a few preliminary swings. Never mind that the sword’s at least half-a-foot shorter than a Head Peacekeeper’s sword; come to think of it, Luce is also probably around half-a-foot shorter than Irons… which isn’t reassuring in the slightest. Despite the odds, he still assumes a ready stance without keeping his eyes off the distance-closing Head Peacekeeper.  _Dammit, of course you are…_

If Irons is going to bloviate more — if anything, his opponent’s stance gives him pause for some reason — Luce doesn’t allow for that opportunity. Because with a sprint forward from the Corpsman, steels clashes against steel. While the Head Peacekeeper has size and experience on his side, his younger opponent demonstrates speed and agility. Besides the fight itself, they have to take into account the strewn bodies and expelled fluids turning the hangar floor into treacherous terrain; both still navigate that terrain with ease all while keeping the focus just on each other. It’s like a bull being taken on by a panther. Unfortunately, while impressive, also all that maneuvering also means that we can’t make a shot due to the risk of hitting the wrong person.

I’m just able to witness Luce barely dodge a punch— Irons actually makes a visible dent in the side of the hovercraft with that hilt — when I hear something that’s not exactly friendly:

“You there; d-down on the ground!” Indeed, there are several Capitol lackies at the base of the hovercraft pointing their guns at me. They don’t even bother shielding themselves; likely due to the fact that the Guardians are focused on maintaining that covering fire for Luce. And still no backup!

Still, I can’t resist rolling my eyes at the demand.  _Oh come on. You dipshits are still focusing on protocol?_ “Hey, I ain’t even armed,” I explain while raising my hands. “I’m just—NO!”

As my explanation transitions into a scream, I watch as Luce stumbles backwards to fall on the ground with a sheet of blood flowing from the fresh slash across his face. I try not to think about how unsteady he looks when popping back up to his feet or how his vitals are going insane on the HUD. Though I also don’t miss that Iron has lost his previous smug demeanor and now unbuckles his scabbard for the left hand to use as a parrying weapon, the cheater. 

Still, I can’t afford to think about that fight due to pressing concerns.

“I said on the ground, now!” Like these morons. “This is your final… your final… w-what is that?” Or the reason these morons are now distracted from me to look towards the forest… towards backup.

_Finally…_

And as the sunlight mutes and tendril-like shadows grow upon the hanger, my enemies finally shift their focus completely to the outside with wide eyes and shaky aims pointed towards rising clouds.

It occurs to me that these enemies are barely reaping age… if that. Must have been voluntold when the Capitol got real desperate, and they are likely set at the periphery of the battle on purpose on account of their lower capabilities. Hell, most of these aren’t even in Peacekeeper gear or have firearms but instead still wear their cadet uniforms and only equipped with melee weapons; so the Capitol must also be lacking in supplies.

However, if that’s supposed to make me feel bad for what’s about to happen, all I have to do is recall the fact that they voluntarily participated in this oath-breaking and were complicit in the murder of one of their own in the process; they’re old enough to comprehend right and wrong by now, so “not knowing” is no excuse. And all I have to do is recall the fact that I now know what that private… that _kid_  was gurgling as I held his hand in his last moments: 

_“Please, I don’t wanna die.”_

So fuck ‘em.

As if in response to my thoughts, the closest swarm bursts in to surround the white-clad lackeys, and their panicked yelps turn into shrieks of pain and terror. Attempts at attacking the swarm are futile, and the few fully-equipped Peacekeepers claw at their breastplates as beetles crawl inside to feast on the meaty prize insides. All the while, other mutts enter by flying in or crawling up the ledge.

As I hold my hand out and allow several birds to perch, I find myself fully in my element.

Though it also doesn’t escape my attention that the signal has brought in a lot more mutts than expected; unless they are reigned in, they can still pose a threat to our own — the signal implants provide a good measure of protection, but there’s always a margin of error, especially with wild-born mutts — and aren’t as effective if not being coordinated as a cohesive collective entity. And as much as I hate to admit it, the Bitch is much better at manipulating large groups than me.

Still, I extend my hand out into the swarm — they all look like a cloud of flowing embers when seen through the glasses — and concentrate while continuously motioning commands into the system.  _If I can just get things at the right frequency… come on, dammit… just a little…_   _yes!_

The embers shift in color from yellow to blue to denote them now coming under my control, and the swarm goes from an amorphous cloud to circling me like a funnel cloud; a funnel cloud made of flying creatures… but still a funnel cloud that I’m at the center of.

As the Guardians let up a big whoop, the main group of Peacekeepers finally begins to notice what’s happening; to my satisfaction, many of the latter already express panic. However, that satisfaction turns into a cold knot when I see the two people who aren’t paying attention.

Hell, I’m not sure Luce is currently aware of anything as he kneels on the ground with one hand still holding onto the gladius and another clutching his side; if he  _is_  aware, he’s certainly not converting that awareness into appropriate action. Because right now, Irons approaches with returned smugness — though I don’t miss the now-present limp or how white of his uniform is being supplanted by growing splotches of crimson — and a raising of his sword in preparation of what has to be the final blow.

Like hell that’s going to happen.

I don’t even hesitate in signaling a swift, and the small bird immediately darts forward. Seconds later, it strafes Irons right in the eye at over a hundred-miles-per-hour, and the Head Peacekeeper stumbles with a yell. The action also knocks Luce back to his senses, and he rolls to the side at just the right moment; his would-be executioner ends up burying the sword in the body of a fallen Peacekeeper instead. My feeling of satisfaction returns when Irons finally realizes what’s up as his remaining eye widens upon looking at me; I bare my teeth at him in turn.

While this only provides a small window of opportunity, that window is all Luce needs to launch himself forward without hesitation. The Head Peacekeeper isn’t even given a chance to react before the Corpsman forces the gladius through the underside of his jaw and into the skull.

At first, Irons actually remains standing for a few seconds. However, as Luce yanks the sword out, the Head Peacekeeper finally topples to the ground with an expression of pure shock etched on his face; this shock ripples through the rest of the Peacekeepers as they watch their leader fall. I know that either one of two things will happen once they get over that shock, and I’m not keen to find out which one it is since Luce is clearly down and incapacitated in the middle of that group.

So without further ado, I point towards the Peacekeepers to issue a simple command:

“Kill.”

Upon that one-syllable utterance, a wave is released to come crashing down upon our enemies; enemies who now lack any semblance of a formation. Granted, it’s not like formations would do them any good anyways as they are beset upon on all sides; as beetles rend flesh… vespids sting with impunity… raptors aim for weak points… jabberjays and mockingjays send out disorienting calls… large carnivorans tear away with claw and fang… and so on. At the same time, Command must have weighed the risks as a large contingent of vehicles head our way. Soon the hanger is filled with the cacophony of mutts, Guardian battle cries, and gunfire… all contrasting with the screams of Peacekeepers.

It’s glorious.

Of course, I feel a bit silly just perched up here, and it’s probably time to rejoin the— _OH SHIT!_

A spray of bullets narrowly misses me just as I hit the deck. While a part me wonders how they avoided the mutts and Guardians, all that matters is that there are a couple of pissed-off enemies situated at the base of the hovercraft. Oh yeah, and now I’m currently tumbling off said hovercraft. I barely have time to control my tumble before a truly idiotic idea overtakes me and manifests in the action of hitting the ground in a roll _towards_  the oldest of those white-clad assholes.

Said asshole is busy checking his ammo, and too late draws his pistol when I reach him, rise back up, and slam into his armored body. The impact against rigid breastplate rattles my body, but it still does what I want in transferring kinetics and forcing him backwards… right over the lip of the hangar’s edge. I myself almost fully join the Peacekeeper’s scream-accented descent if not for a firm braking assisted by the dampening of my momentum. 

However, I can’t exactly congratulate myself just yet. Because as I gather my breath, I acknowledge the fact that there are still several enemies left. While they are all the daycare crew — all of whom wear lifebraids that only hold birth and first-cycle beads — I have to remind myself that even these little brats have training.

And the bulk of my mutts are busy.

No biggie.

Of course, I know that, despite his little recent adventure, Luce would still want to give these children a chance. And most likely, any surviving cadet wouldn’t be treated the same way as a surviving Peacekeeper; assuming there will be survivors after hostilities cease. This would be despite their flagrant violation of hospitality. This would be despite their clearly willing participation in the unprovoked violence against us. This would be despite the look in their eyes that makes it clear they know full well what they are doing and have no interest in peace. Despite all of that, Central may give them a way out if they surrender.

“So,” I chirp, “which of you fucknuggets wants to surrender?” And I might as well acknowledge such a stance.

The continued expressions of pissed-off from all of them answers my question. Color me unsurprised. Besides…

I’m not Luce.

Before they can respond further, I bolt forward for the nearest idiot without his sword drawn. Idiot just draws his sword when I slam him against the side of the hovercraft at his back, smack his head against the metal surface for good measure, and grab his belt’s shoulder strap before yanking him around to switch places.

Just in time. Because one of the idiot’s buddies rushes in with her gladius held forward. Though instead of skewering me, she ends up forcing that blade through the stunned idiot’s torso and _—_

_SONUVABITCH!_

Searing pain blossoms out from where the sword skims across my ribs. Still, the idiot does his job as a shield and expresses that by coughing blood-laden spittle all over my face as his buddy freezes in shock. I wrestle said shield’s sword out of his loosening grasp and stab up into said buddy’s side; several times. I yank my shield to the side to block another cadet’s attack before retaliating.

As my assailants collapse to the ground — one taking the stupid sword with him; damn shoddy grip got slippery — the shield slumps against me. So I quickly rummage around his belt to get what I need and toss his body back to avoid getting soaked in piss.

Then with a flash of the arm, I flick the baton open and bolt forward.

A cadet slashes out; I duck and sidestep to get him in the kneecap and back of the skull. Another actually goes for a downward attack; I block with the baton, knee her in the groin — or close enough; hard to tell with the skirt, but she’s doubling over — and finish up with a good solid whack to the temple and some well-placed stomps. Then catch another assailant in the throat with my elbow, knock him flat on his back, and jab the end of the baton into his eye socket. 

I may not be Luce, but I’ll have to thank him for the CQC lessons he gave me during his spare ti—

The tackle hits me hard enough to send the baton out of my hand. The cadet’s eyes are dazed as blood seeps out of his ear, but that doesn’t stop him from grappling and clawing at me as we roll around. It should be easy to pry off this weakened little prick, but damn he’s tena—

_AAAAGH!_

My vocalized scream is even less coherent as my assailant chomps down on my forearm. Almost instinctively, I manage to roll so that he’s on his back. Then I slam the arm he’s still clamped on towards the ground.

The cadet’s skull hits the pavement hard enough to bounce, and I’m able to extract my throbbing arm from his slackened jaws. Then I grab a fistful of his hair and keep slamming until the bouncing ceases and hands clinging to me fall limp.

I give myself no pause before grabbing the nearest gladius and launching myself at my next target. However, as I close the distance, the cadet casts his sword aside and throws his hands up with a scream:

“I SURRENDER!”  

The blade stops just centimeters from his neck.  _Are you shitting me?_

“I surrender!” he repeats. “Please have mercy.”

I don’t back down at the cadet’s request and lack of resistance. Instead, I hold the sword against his neck, with my other hand on the spine of the blade; since the idiot’s backed up against a work bench, I merely have to shove forward to end him.

Still, despite my suspicions and the high burning through my veins, I register the cadet’s sincerity from his meek quivering voice and runny… everything. Come to think of it, he didn’t share his comrades’ enthusiasm before our little blitz. So his initial rejection of my offer of surrender may have simply been due to peer pressure.

Though if he thinks I’m sympathetic, this little brat has another thing coming. All this last-minute surrender means is that he’s gone along the path of least resistance no matter said path’s nature. Now that the Peacekeeper path’s no longer favorable…  

Still, after a few deep breaths, I lower the sword to the side with a sigh. The cadet gives a sigh of his own in relief.

Then I quickly palm-strike the base of his jaw with a muttered, “Coward.”  

As the cadet drops to the ground, his body stiffens and twitches at my feet. However, a quick check reveals normal breathing; concussion-related complications are possible, but it's not my problem.

Especially since there  _is_  a problem at hand, and I waste no more time in addressing it:

“Reckon that surrender looks mighty fine right now.” I bolster my drawled statement with grin aimed at the last remaining cadet, who doesn’t even have a sword out but has backed up to almost twenty meters away.

Now, I expect either a plea for mercy like the now-unconscious brat — I need to restrain him soon — or just another charge of stupidity like everyone else; I’ll accept either choice appropriately. What I don’t expect is this fool returning the grin while proudly holding something compact in his hand. Nor do I expect him to recite loyalist drivel: 

“Glory be Panam. Glory be the Capitol. Glory be its Guiding Light!"  _What the hell is he… Oh hell…_  "Death to all traitors! DEATH TO THE REBELLION!”

 _He isn’t going to… he’s too close… he’d be in the radius as well… he—_ he, with wild eyes and widening grin, reaches for the fuse to the grenade grasped firmly in his hand.

_Ohshitohshitohshit…_

I dive to the side and scramble for the pistol dropped by the Peacekeeper I bumped off. When I twist back around, I behold the cadet charging me with grenade held high and pubescent scream ringing loud:

“MORS ANTE INFAMIAM!" 

There might be some screaming from me as well, and it might be slightly less coherent. Whatever the case, I don’t even bother to check the safety or focus on aiming. Hell, I don’t even look straight when I raise the gun and squeeze the trigger. It kicks in my hand and creates a splash of red on the cadet’s shoulder, but he doesn’t falter. My finger twitches again. It twitches more. It twitches until the magazine’s empty and my assailant finally topples.

Though as the body lands in a bloody heap a couple meters way, momentum allows the live grenade to be released from its wielder’s limp hand and tumble right… towards… 

_Oh… oh shhhi…_

I try scrambling up, but the fluid-slickened floor makes me just fall back on my ass as the rolling grenade decreases distance between it and me.

_No. No. No! Go away! GO AWAY!_

The grenade doesn’t go away, but it does finally stop… right against my balls.

_Notlikethis… pleasenotlikethis…_

And it does nothing.

_… Ffffff…_

Seconds later… it still does nothing.

_Ff-fuh… fuh… fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…_

"CRAZY FUCK!” I hurl the spent pistol at said fuck's body for good measure.  _What… What kind of… Fucking…_

Before I realize what I’m doing, I grab the grenade and chuck it as best as I can towards the outside; it stops just short of the edge. Despite all logic telling me otherwise, I scramble — not even giving a damn about the puddle I’ve left behind — to finish the job; dud or not, that damn thing shouldn’t be in my presence.

After sending the grenade the rest of the way, I take a moment to get my bearings straight before finally staggering up.

That’s when I hear footsteps, and my periphery gets hit by a flash of steel-reflected sunlight. As I move to dodge — I can hear something going through the air above me — my foot hits a slick spot.

 _Shitshitshit…_  As lose my balance, I can’t help but flail for something secure to hold onto despite— _Gotcha! Wait…_

Good news: I have a good hold on something. Bad news: said something is the ends of an enemy cadet’s neckerchief.

Time slows, and I manage to see realization widen said cadet’s eyes as I continue to fall… while maintaining a firm grip.

Too late he tries moving backwards before losing his balance to get yanked forward. In contrast, that transfer of energy keeps me from falling outwards, and I let go of the neckerchief in time to throw my arms out over the ledge and halt my descent; my temporary anchor attempts a last-ditch grab at my shirt as he plummets, but too slow.

As strain-induced shock flashes up my jolted arms — Or would it be down at this position? — I almost puke and let go from an additional wave of blinding pain erupting from my side and arm. However, pain is the least of my worries when I look up at the anchor’s buddy advancing upon me with a glare; he clearly doesn’t even have to aim to land a strike. Though this time, I’m not concerned; because I know I’m not alone. Before the cadet can raise his weapon, a rust-colored blur overtakes him. 

As the gladius clatters dangerously close to my face, I haul myself up and collapse onto the ground to pant out a few breaths that are nice, even, and totally not panic-stricken. I had everything completely under control. 

“Good girl.” Dewdrop must hear my gasped statement over her prey’s shrieks — okay, gurgles — and she plods over to nuzzle me up to my feet; despite the bloody mess she’s leaves, I scratch her behind the ears in turn before ordering, “Protect the Bastard.”

I don’t even have to specify whom, and my mutt bolts off into the fray.

With things now fully quiet on my end, I return to the surrendered cadet; he’s somewhat conscious now but fortunately too groggy to resist my restraining him with his own handcuffs. Then I stumble back to collapse at my previous hiding spot by the Guardians and, against my better judgment, accept a cig from a grunt… before shoving it back in his hands while coughing up the vapor. However, I don’t rebuke the Guardians’ chortles; in fact, I join them. Laughs are in short supply right now, and we’ll take what we can get.

Several minutes in, and as mutts begin to claw for access into one of the hovercrafts, a panicky voice yells, “We surrender! Please don’t atta—”

A gunshot interrupts that — one of the windows on the cockpit spiderwebs with a splash of crimson — before a new voice barks, “Peacekeepers, don’t give into cowardice. We can still—”

 _That_  is replaced by sounds of a struggle, and more gunshots, before  _another_  voice comes on: “I repeat that offer of an unconditional surrender. We never wanted this.”

I exchange a look with Gunny, who mulls things over before announcing via speaker, “We accept your surrender. But be advised that if you pull anything funny, the mutts will be the least of your worries.” With a signal from her, I in turn signal for the mutts to fall back from all hovercraft.

The expression of relief accompanying that Peacekeeper’s sigh is practically visible from here. “Acknowledged. And I suggest to others to follow my example… even if a price may need to be paid.”

Almost immediately, gunshots are seen and heard in the other hovercrafts, followed by announcements of surrender; well… except for one rocked by an interior explosion on the heels of a screamed statement about Peacekeepers never yielding.

Soon after that, and with the final resisting Peacekeeper eliminated, the battle is finally over.

After sending the mutts back outside — I’ll need to give them a treat sometime — I grab what I need and run towards what used to be the Peacekeeper group. With the battle high wearing off, I now have to suppress the urge to upchuck due the stench released from the dead. In the middle of those white-clad — well, I’m not sure there’s much white left at this point — lumps of meat, I find whom I’m looking for, though my sense of urgency increases at the sight of him.

Luce doesn’t look like he’s moved from where he was last after taking down the Head Peacekeeper. Even after the mutts scatter from shielding the Corpsman’s body — though Dewdrop remains seated by him — I doubt he’s going to move under his own volition. So I shake his shoulder gingerly to call out, “Luce… Luce!”

Finally he turns to face me — dammit, he’s still bleeding; definitely not a hygienic place to do such a thing — with a bleary expression and murmurs, “Ned?” Even with each breath coming out shallow, and blood continuing to seep past the hand held at his side, he still has enough energy to scowl in my direction. “Told you to stay put.”

“Yeah,” I mutter while rummaging for some clotting agent, “and that worked out  _so_  well.”

A bloody hand rests atop mine to stop my rummaging. “’m okay…”

Of course he’d say that. “No you ain’t. And I reckon Joe’s gonna give you an epic ass-chewing.”

“Really, I’m fine. Just hungry. Others need attention.” And now the idiot tries to stand. “I'm… I… huh…”

A moment later he crumples forward, completely unresponsive to the world.

_Sonuvabitch…_

* * *

***Now***

The Battle of the Hangar wasn't actually supposed to happen. At least, it wasn't Irons' plan. The actual plan was for the Head Peacekeeper to strike down the Commandant during negotiations later in the evening. In the meantime, his soldiers would storm businesses and take hostages. Their hope was to force the Guardians into surrendering control of Central to them; from there, they would send out a call to have all other Peacekeepers and loyalists to arrive to a "New Capitol". Any Peacekeeper who disagreed with the plan was sequestered in the hovercraft and put under guard until everything blew over.

Of course, plans are the first casualties in battle. Even if the Peacekeeper who raised the alarm — apparently he merely played along before taking his chance — didn't do so, and even if Irons managed to do the unthinkable, they probably didn't take into account how willing everyone in Central was to protect their home. Or that the Commandant had a contingency in the event of her death. Or that the rebels would have just besieged the region to shoot down any Peacekeeper hovercraft attempting to approach.

Yeah, the plan was fucked from the start.

As the skirmish occurred — it felt a lot longer than the fifteen-to-thirty minutes it was — the Commandant was also attacked by the Capitol attache. The result was predictable.

In the end, after interrogating them, we finally released the few surviving assholes… into the Glade. Those who were sequestered, plus surviving cadets regardless of their stance during the skirmish, were sent back to Two with the belongings of their comrades. We actually posthumously decorated the alarm-sounder.

Decorations were also given to all of the Guardians present. No more evident than Luce himself. After he was released from Medical after being there for almost a week — he wasn't even fully healed when he visited that prison camp in Two, the idiot — the Commandant bumped him up a rank and awarded him the Medal of Honor for his actions in taking the wounded to safety.

Oh yeah, and everyone had to be treated for tinnitus.

In any case, Luce's words bring me pack to the present:

"Edwen Bannon, for showing extreme resourcefulness in calling in the mutts, skill in controlling them, and bravery for taking the initiative — an initiative that ended the battle far sooner than it could have run and saving lives in the process — I present to you this Guardian Shield." Under his breath, he adds, "Since we have nowhere to put the medal right now, I reckon you'll have to wear it."

I'm still too numb to retort as he pins the medal to my chest, and the whir of a shutter hints at this occasion being memorized. With the formality out of the way, Luce offers his hand for a shake; when I take it, he pulls me in for a crushing bear hug.

Finally, as he lets go, I find my voice. "But there were other workers fighting alongside me!"

"And they got recognized for their actions as well," the Corpsman counters. "It's just that you were out when it happened… and when you were actually recorded down."

 _Wait…_ "When was I recognized?"

"Beginning of this year."

 _What._  And as I glance towards my folks, I can see that, while they're happy, they don't exactly look surprised at this turn of events. "But… why now?"

A big grin crosses Luce face. "Just wanted the right moment to surprise you." To punctuate that, he actually reaches into his pocket to throw a handful of confetti up into the air. "Surprise!"

That earns him an elbow to the ribs, but I put no malice in it or my ensuing growl: "You're one cheeky bastard. You know that right?"

Luce ruffles my hair in turn. "Fact."

As I brush away any remaining flower petals from my hair and clothes, I'm actually approached to be congratulated by everyone else; feels downright weird. Of course I'm unsurprised that Dio's previous self-consciousness has been completely replaced with ecstasy. What I  _am_  surprised at though is that even Hawthorne, Wilson, and Eli's congratulations are genuine, as are the expressions of respect they convey towards me; granted, it's probably the decoration that they are respecting, which is honestly fair.

That's when I notice the presence of someone else within our midst… someone who've I've never personally met before but don't have any trouble in recognizing. Though if anything, that recognition causes a single question to rise to the forefront of my mind:

_What the hell is Peeta Mellark doing here?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the names, Panemian gladii and spathas are closer in form to Chinese dao and jian, respectively rather than Roman swords due to influences in D2.


	18. The Victors

"Peeta!"

_Great, like my ears haven't required being fixed enough times as it is…_

Delly's squeal barely has time to dissipate from my brain cavity before I see her run over to embrace the subject of note.

I've never met Mellark in-person before. This is despite my folks working with him a lot for their charity-related efforts. For some reason, my own flesh-and-blood have always left me out whenever there's an event or something similar with that victor involved.

I mean it's silly, and if I didn't know any better, I'd come to the conclusion that they can't trust what I'll say around that overly-idealistic Section-Eight.

In any case, it's not like I'm at the top of Mellark's list to talk to; the former Twelvers have that distinction. With Delly letting go of him, the victor takes the time to greet Rory and Eli with a ruffling of their hair and a general set of compliments before he moves onto the rest of the Hawthornes, as well as the Wilsons and Anders; Bread Boy actually has a box of cookies for the little kids to share amongst themselves.

After the Twofers — barring Dio, who looks as if he's about to suffer some kind of internal system error; I swear that he's trying to hide behind me, which is a bit surreal when you think about it — Mellark moves onto the Central crew. I'm a bit surprised the greeting is on the minimal side — just a general "Glad you could make it" and such — until it hits me that they actually came together due to the simple fact that Central now is in charge of transporting victors whenever they so wish; though I wonder why he hadn't shown up earlier. It's just as well as I don't think I'd be able to stand a first meeting between the Corpsman and the victor.

Ultimately, as my folks greet the victor and thank him for coming, I have to deal with the inevitable. Because the moment Ma tells me to say hello, the spotlight shines in my direction… which Peeta Mellark begins moving towards.

"Iris and Vector told me they had a son," he states with a warm smile — we don't even know he each other and he's already being chummy; the scary thing is that I'm pretty sure it's genuine — and hand extended. "Hi, I'm Peeta."

 _Thank you, Commander Obvious._  As I look at the hand — not to mention my folks; they're staring right back at me with equal parts trepidation and warning — one thought keeps going through my mind:

_Don'tcallhimcrazy… don'tcallhimcrazy… don'tcallhimcrazy…_

"Hi, I couldn't tell," I chirp while firmly grasping said offered hand. "Must be that this place is too safe for you to accidentally kill yourself in."  _Nailed it…_

Come on, can you really blame me? Even if the victor didn't just walk right into that one as if it were a force field — seriously, that he's still alive boggles my mind — the opportunity's too good to pass up. And at least I didn't call him crazy.

Still, and even before I finish my statement, I can see Pa shaking his head and Ma reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. And in the wake of it, Hawthorne, Wilson, and the Cartwrights look about ready to throttle me, Luce actually slaps his hand against his face hard enough to be heard, and I can sense Dio stiffen a bit in my periphery.

"I wasn't so sure about your identity either." Somehow, and in contrast to everyone else, Mellark doesn't lose his smile… or his now-crushing grip on my hand. "After all, it's not like your parents really talked about you. I wonder why that is…"

_You sanctimonious son of a bitch…_

Come to think of it, said smile has transitioned to sharp bared teeth, and his eyes look less like a tropical lagoon and more like a glacier. Honestly, it feels like those eyes are boring into me and analyzing every fiber of my being; however, I'm not going to give Bread Boy the satisfaction of knowing how uncomfortable it makes me.

I don't know how long we maintain eye contact or an iron grip — like hell I'm going to back down from some soft and squishy rhetorician from Twelve; hiding and talking people to death are probably his only two effective defense mechanisms — but when we break off the impasse at the same time, I know that I'm the one who wins by a millisecond.

Despite everything, Mellark keeps his tone civil and conversational: "Interesting outfit you got there. What made you decide on a kilt?"

Okay, the fact that he actually called it by the right name — instead of the usual commentary labeling it as a skirt — catches me completely off-guard. I'm pretty sure I manage to keep my surprise from showing — I have a suspicion that Bread Boy's just trying to knock me off balance — and instead offer a small shrug. "It's comfortable and part of my pre-Panem heritage. Do you know yours?"

He actually looks thoughtful for a moment. "I won't lie that I'm a bit curious. I may consider taking a test." That statement's followed by a glance towards my medal. "And congratulations on your Guardian Shield. I know Porus doesn't offer praises lightly, so I'm pretty sure you deserve it."

This time, while there's still little warmth there, it's not hard to notice that his congratulation is sincere; again, probably a case of be-deferential-towards-the-decoration-if-not-the-person and all that. Though if he was supposed to throw me off again with his name-dropping, I don't take the bait; thanks to Luce's babbling, I already am well-aware that Everdeen and Mellark have visited Central several times before.

Still, I incline my head in a general show of acknowledgement of Mellark's statement. "Thanks." I then allow my eyes to flit down to his un-shoed left foot so as to give a compliment of my own: "Good choice having Central do the work this time."

"Well, it's not like Luce allowed me any room to refuse a replacement," the victor notes with a roll of his eyes — the Corpsman simply flashes us that patented and stupid grin of his in response — before tapping against the leg with his original right foot. "Took a bit of getting used to wearing something that doesn't look as humanlike as the Capitol models, but the leg works way better than my previous ones…"

We keep up the idle chit-chat, but it's clear that Bread Boy really doesn't care for me. Well, the feeling's mutual.

In any case, that civil-yet-cool demeanor dissipates almost immediately when the victor looks over my shoulder. In that moment, the warm smile graces his face once again as he moves past me and extends his hand with a hearty level of enthusiasm. "And you must be Dio! Gale's told me so much about you, and I'm glad that we can finally meet."

If anybody has the impression that Dio's makeover would make him less awkward in public, any such notion is put to rest when he practically stumbles while fumbling with Mellark's hand. "I'm Dio—I mean, it's an honor to meet you, sir." This time, it's Hawthorne doing the face-palming as the kid stammers on. "Uh, Mr. Mellark, sir."

And in that moment, Bread Boy's friendly expression gains a level of bemusement; though if anything, the bemusement is one of weariness rather than surprise. "You know… you can just call me Peeta." Yeah, I have a feeling he's said this more than once towards Twofers.

Of course, that just makes Dio cringe and stumble over himself even more as if he had just committed a grievous error; knowing my roommate, he probably thinks he actually  _did_  insult the victor. "Sorry, Mr. Peeta—I mean Peeta, sir."  _Oh for fuck's sake…_  I wonder how long it took the kid to call the adults in his adoptive family by their first names.

Before Dio can make any more of an ass of himself, I decide to cut in and salvage the situation. "Alrighty, as fun as this is to watch, I'm curious about something, Mellark," I drawl. "What—… the hell?"

Any prior thought gets banished from my mind the same time that something wraps around my leg and weighs it down enough to make me almost trip even though I'm not even walking. When I take a look down at the source of the added weight, I'm greeted by two wide orbs of aquamarine staring right back at me.

"Uh… hi."

I'm… not exactly sure how the toddler views me in response to my greeting. On one hand, hiding your face is a common fear response; on the other… I'm pretty sure that the proper reaction to fear — assuming that "fight" isn't an option — is to flee or at least put some sort of barrier between you and the offending source.

Instead, he curls up and clings even tighter to my leg while burying his face into my knee till I can only see a bundle of clothes topped with a mess of bronze hair.

However, it only takes a few seconds for the toddler to lift his head just enough to peer at me with one eye before unfurling himself to go back to how he was. To my amusement, he seems to be fixated with my kilt as he allows one chubby hand free to paw at the embroidery and pin; he only pauses in his little observation to look down at his trousers before going back to said observation. Repeat process.

"Well, what do you think?"

The toddler's probably not expecting me to make note of what he's doing, because my query immediately causes him to cease his actions and go back to impersonating a damn limpet. Seriously, I think a limpet would be easier to dislodge than him; because no matter how much I move my leg around, he refuses to budge.

Even though the toddler's presence is weird enough in itself, he doesn't seem content to keep things at that level of strange. Because somehow, upon relaxing again — not that he's planning on letting go any time soon — he manages to steer things into the realm of the surreal by looking up to give this big grin… before nuzzling me like some pup with its parent.

_What._

Okay, I'm not even going to deny that even the remote possibility of me being viewed in such a manner freaks me out entirely. What child in their right mind would think I'm the paternal type anyways? Also, whose kid is this anyways and why is he here?

Of course, the moment that Dio stops being visibly uncomfortable in the presence of Mellark has to be the moment that he starts taking in this sight with ill-disguised glee; to my own discomfort, that fool of a victor seems to be enjoying the sight as well.

However, nobody seems to be enjoying the sight more than Luce, who doesn't hesitate in trotting over while wearing his own moronic grin. "Abe? Is that you?" he asks while kneeling down in front of us. "Somebody's grown a bit."

If the tone of friendliness and familiarity that the Corpsman conveys is supposed to be recognized by the toddler, the latter fails to show it and doesn't hesitate in scurrying around my leg — again, without letting go — to position himself behind me. He certainly isn't doing a very good job at hiding considering the manner in which he keeps peering around, and if his goal is so that I can be utilized as an active source of defense, I hope he realizes that it's a bit hard for me to fight back when I have a ten-kilo weight latched onto my leg.

Unless his rationale is that the sort of defense I'm supposed to give is to serve as some kind of meat shield… which is pretty damn cold, even for me.

I release a small sigh at the indignity of this before grunting to Luce, "You know this kid?"

"Yeah. I mean it's been over a year which is why he probably doesn't recognize me but…" The Corpsman's rambling trails off as he gives me an expression of puzzlement. "You don't? I thought you've already been to Four."

"Yeah. But I don't see how that narrows—… Wait… is this the O—"

"Abulon Odair! What did I say about running off like that?"

 _Ah, somebody's in trouble…_  Abe must know that as well, because upon that familiar and currently displeased voice, he once again goes back to his version of hiding. Though not before uttering a small squeak: "Fuck…"

 _Did… did he just say what I think he just said?_  I must not be the only one who heard it, because the expressions on Dio and Luce's faces go from practically cooing to being completely horrified; Mellark just looks resigned.

In contrast, once the initial shock passes, I can't help but chirp, "I like this kid!"

Past the initial state of mortified shock, Luce seems to be far less amused for some reason. Actually, if I didn't know any better, I'd think that he's muttering between clenched teeth, "I'm gonna kill Johanna." Still, the Corpsman manages to smoothly transition from that demeanor as well as he greets our newest arrival with a wave and smile: "Hi, Annie!"

The victor from Four responds with small wave of her own. "Hello, Luce," she says before turning towards me with a nodded greeting and sigh. "Ned, I'm sorry if Abe's bothering you."

"Ain't nothing to be sorry about," I reply with a grin of my own while patting Abe atop his head as he continues his attempts at hiding behind me; since he's currently reaching out with one hand — the other hand still has a firm grasp on my leg — to bat at the tasseled ends of Luce's sash, the effectiveness of said attempt continues to come across as a tad suspect. "I can see you raised a good kid here. Though I reckon his… impressive vocabulary range didn't come from you."

Annie's extra sigh and admonishment towards her son answers my question — after squeaking what I think is supposed to be an apology, Abe's back to cowering behind me — before we proceed to exchange pleasantries, and I manage to introduce her to Dio; the introduction doesn't change my roommate's state of being one continuous fountain of awkward.

At an aside glance, I can see that Mellark appears to be completely shocked by the cheerful and engaging conversation Annie and I are having about her district's rainforests and tide pools. It's as if he expected me to view his fellow victor the same way that many of the idiots in this nation do. Ignoring the fact that I have actually met her several times before — she's been helping oversee the rebuilding of Four, which my folks have a stake in due to the company shipyards nearing completion — that assumption is just silly.

Does she have a severe case of PTSD? Of course. However that's still a far cry from insanity; she's unhinged perhaps, but not insane. Even though I was little at the time, I vividly remember seeing Annie's Games. I remember the soon-to-be-victor being pinned under the body of her crippled-but-still-conscious district partner — ironically, if he didn't try to have her back, he probably wouldn't have fallen on top of her when taking the hit to the side — while he was decapitated… slowly. I remember that, when she managed to get a hand free to kill her attacker, she got another round of blood-laden-spittle sprayed all over her face before finally extricating herself from underneath those corpses. And I remember her having to tread water for hours — occasionally fighting off and drowning some desperate tributes in the process — because someone clearly screwed up the water release system in the arena. Anybody who says that they would be fine afterwards is either lying… or they already have a few screws loose.

The point is that I like Annie. She's nice — contrary to what some may think of me, I actually consider niceness as a positive trait so long as you aren't spineless or willfully blind about it — and it's clear that her extremely quiet and unassuming nature belies no small amount of intelligence and strength. Also, while the victor has shown to have high ethical standards, she's not sanctimonious about it; I have a feeling that she actually figured out what I used to do in Central, but the fortunate thing is that she hasn't sent any flak my way.

In any case, I'm just glad that it doesn't look like Mason's come along with the two victors present. Actually, it's probably good for everyone present. Let's just say that the last time that bitch and I met, my folks had to work enough damage control to prevent news of the… incident from reaching the media.

A motion at my side brings me back to my surroundings, and I look back down at Abe to see that he's no longer in hiding mode but back to standing right by me while tugging at my knife. Granted, it's just the sheath he's tugging at, but I still move the thing up out of his grasp. Though instead of being discouraged with my maneuver as I'd expect any toddler to be, Abe does something that I can't really figure out: he holds his arms up while looking right at me and making grasping motions with his hands.

"Uh…" Yeah, that's the only thing I can say to that as I look at everyone else; many of whom are completely flummoxed.

One who doesn't seem to share said flummoxing is Ma, who sighs and asks, "Really Ned, you can't recognize when someone wants you to pick them up?"

 _Wait…_  "What."

"You used to do that all the time when you were little," Pa adds.

 _Great… you just had to bring up tidbits about my early childhood._  Ignoring the expressions of glee that have overtaken some in the group, I turn to Annie, who simply states, "Yes, he wants you to pick him up. You can if you want."

By now, while Abe hasn't put his arms back down, he's shifting around as if in anxiety or impatience.  _I can't believe I'm about to do this…_  But without further thought, I grab a hold of and lift the toddler up to allow him to find purchase on my forearm. As my passenger grasps my shoulder in a steadying manner, I decide to strike up some conversation. "So… what you think?" I ask while gesturing at my outfit. "Do you like it?"

To my surprise, instead of trying to hide again, Abe answers me with an enthusiastic nod of his head.

"Well, you know… 'Odair' sounds quite Celtic. I bet that if you ask your ma nicely, you can have something like this."

If Annie's son has surprised me before, I… really don't know what to make of what he's doing now. Because what he does upon my comment is to immediately give a wide grin again before throwing his arms around my neck and snuggling in close. The only response I can make to that is to look at Annie and note, "He ain't much of a talker."

The victor answers me with a shake of the head. I guess it's something else that her son directly inherited.

With Abe nestled against me, I walk out with everyone else into the open area outside Stygia. While the limo's still there, sitting right next to it is a Griffin, which is what likely brought the victors and my Central peers in the first place; against the carefully-manicured garden in the background, the Guardian transport certainly sticks out a bit.

While Annie and Mellark are going to be attending the gala, they aren't going to reaching the event in the same manner as us due to reasons; instead, they're going to be taking the Griffin down. Joining them are Brue, Hazelle, all the guests under eighteen, and the Cartwrights; in the last pair's case, the transport will be taking them to wherever they were planning on being in the first place.

Though before everybody begins boarding, Lucy proceeds to ask Posy and Seleucus if they can grab something from the transport for her; even with the competitive bickering between them, the two kids come out with a small box to hand to her.

When I take a good look, I can't help but raise my eyebrows a bit. "Care to tell me why you brought a stasis box?"

"You'll see," Lucy notes in a singsong manner while keying in the access codes while the little ones and teens gather around. Even Abe seems to be forgetting his usual fear towards strangers as he looks on with interest.

Less than a minute later, and to the gasps of the kids, the box opens up to revel three small and jewel-like feathery forms; with some prompting, the hummingbird mutts awake with a peeping shudder and flutter of the wings before they finally take to the air. While this is happening, I notice the complex corsage that my former colleague is affixing to her dress; occasionally, the birds will swoop down to take a drink out of it.

By now, all the kids — even the older ones like Rory and Eli — are pretty much beside themselves with delight and wonderment as the hummingbirds circle their master or briefly land on the shoulders or outstretched hands of anyone nearby.

"So… this is part of your dress?" I ask while keeping a firm grasp on Abe, who's trying to reach for a gold and magenta bird flitting right out of his reach.

Lucy turns to regard me with a smirk. "Yep. What do you think?"

"… It's actually pretty da-ang awesome," I concede.

Though at least for now, the kids will have to wait to admire the mutts later as it's time for us to begin boarding our respective transports. It's a bit difficult to extricate him from me, but I manage to hand Abe back to Annie.

For some reason, while Hawthorne's busy asking Dio whether he's comfortable going with us, Mercury moves over to Mellark before taking something out of an arm compartment and handing it to him with some muttered exchange; whatever it is, it causes an expression of elation to overtake the Twelver, and he picks up the Twofer in a big bear hug before boarding. As the Griffon takes off, Hawthorne gives a questioning look at his girlfriend; she waves it off with a comment about getting a move on.

With the nine of us boarded into a limo, getting a move on is what we do as we proceed down the mountainside switchbacks into the city.

While Esquilinus is wealthiest spot in the Capitol, it's the Southern Esplanade that would probably be considered the glitziest. The neighborhood, also known as the Panemian Riviera and ranging from the actual southeastern shore of the city up to the foothills, recovered within a year after the war and is still where people come to see and be seen. Penthouse-capped condos create shining canyons along the wide streets and canals; lining those thoroughfares aren't just big-name designer boutiques, contemporary art galleries, and fixed-menu restaurants to satisfy the rich in general, but casinos and hotels to accommodate high-rolling foreigners. The best establishments are set along the promenade itself to face out past the park and marinas — filled with personal yachts and hovercraft — into the mountain-flanked expanse of the lake.

This is also a place I haven't deigned to visit lately… and which Dio clearly hasn't been to at all considering the way he's viewing all this conspicuous consumption with no small amount of awe. Suffice to say, the rest of us don't share his awe, but we don't do anything to discourage it as the limo goes down Lakeside Boulevard.

I also decide to humor him a bit. "See that building there?"

Dio's eyes follow where I'm pointing and widen ever so slightly when he takes in the subject of note. "Is that where we're going?"

"Yep," I affirm, "we're going to the Forum."

The Forum is considered to be the main landmark on the Southern Esplanade; with its massive and glassy cantilevered form that juts out over the lake, it's not like it's hard to miss. Even though it's an enclosed space, it's big enough to serves as a public plaza whenever there's no event going on. Suffice to say, it's considered a prime spot to host events.

After a few minutes, and by the time we're just a few blocks away and slowed down by traffic, a puzzled frown crosses the kid's expression. "There's a lot more people than I expected."

His observation causes me bark out a small laugh. "Well, that's because our event ain't the only one there. In fact, most are probably there for the film festival."

"Film festival?"

Oh yeah, another thing this sector is home to is the entertainment industry. This can be seen in the multitude of theaters crowding the main boulevard and showing everything from opera and ballet to musicals and avante-garde performances. It's also seen in the recording agencies and various performance-arts schools. Not to mention the sprawling complex that's Capitol Studios.

Entertainment has always been a popular export from Panem and is still the most profitable industry of the Capitol itself. Games-era films dealing with history or the government are a source of ridicule at best, but films and shows in other genres actually tend to be extremely well-regarded globally. Just as popular are music and stage productions, with recordings and scripts distributed worldwide; several musicians have even started doing shows internationally. Somehow the positive reputation that Capitol Studios built for itself managed to survive the Rebellion, with clear efforts made by the studio to shed old hang-ups now that it's no longer government-run.

Anyways, it's due to this entertainment aspect of the Capitol that our gala isn't the only major event happening at the Forum.

When I tell Dio about the film-festival — the two events share the space by mutual agreement, after which we'll go our separate ways; our respective venues are adjacent to the Forum — and the resultant attention that it's probably drawing by now, he appears to be having some second thoughts about participating.

"Too late," I note as our limo slows to a stop and the doors slide open to unmuffle a collective chattering drone of reporters and spectators surrounding the person-speckled ribbon of red leading up to the Forum. As my folks step out onto the carpet, I get ready to follow them right into this cutthroat world. Behind me, I can hear my companions doing the same; Lucy assuring Dio that she'll guide him and Luce pepping himself for the attention.

I know that these days, we'll face anything together.

"Showtime."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... consider this fic complete with an open end. If I revisit, it will be in a one-shot.
> 
> No, Annie's son is not called "Finn/Finnick". My thought is that since the Odairs could have easily found out about the preganacy in Thirteen, they had two names lined up before Finnick went to the Capitol.


End file.
